(I wonder if really truly writers feel a buzz in their brain when a story is forming? A pre-story itch? I've had this going on again and so I must sit down to write before I lose the sensation, or at least get this started in order to scratch a little bit.)
It's about not being perfect and realizing it's okay to be so. To be so real and honest about imperfections that suddenly are badges of proof of a full life, pretty or not, which is in truth pretty darned special.
let me back up..... Most of my life I have dealt daily with not being enough. Not enough of anything really - not pretty enough, not short enough, not thin enough, not fast enough, not educated enough, not slow enough, not smart enough, not charming enough, not good enough, not brave enough, not happy enough, not strong enough, not something enough. I've seen counselors, read self-help books, and struggled to feel like I met the expectations that came crashing down like thick gray waves, drowning who I really wanted to be. Me. Those waves, though. Grinding down and wearing thin the resolve of me-ness every day, and I couldn't swim up for the air of freedom, so went along with that tide of self-loss and disappointment knowing that I couldn't quite measure up to what I was 'supposed' to be. (Now don't get me started on the phrase 'you should....' Sets off a firestorm in my soul every time I hear it. That and 'you never...') Living year in and year out with that burden of lack has taken its toll.
A few years back, L'Oreal had a campaign with the very popular line 'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful' and everyone joked about it. But advertising goes in to our very core beliefs and wedges itself like a nanocancer, spreading into our minds and hearts and destroying our own self-worth if aren't ----enough. We look at ourselves in the mirror and we do not see the perfection of face and hair and makeup and body and clothes and house and car, and we begin to believe 'I am not whatever enough.' Some of our Pinterest projects do not turn out like the professionally styled projects do, our quilts don't have perfect corners and stitches, and our kids do not eat all their vegetables. We're not a size 2 or 10 or even a 14 and we don't drive a BMW. Our houses look lived in. And our manicures are not always fresh. Wow. It's heavy to carry around all of that, isn't it?
So here's my light-bulb moment. I have a perfect body. My body is BEAUTIFUL! I was getting ready for work one morning and caught a glimpse of my naked self in my full-length mirror and instead of groaning at the sight of myself, I stopped and looked at me. Just me. Fifty-eight, almost fifty-nine year old me. I weigh more than I should (there's that word and see how it makes me feel guilty instantly???) I have hair that's almost as much white as it is red. I have some wrinkles. I have lots of stretch marks and cellulite. I looked at my breasts, my stomach, my hips and thighs and arms and legs. My eyes and my ears and yes, my Plemons nose. I looked at my hands and my feet. I looked at what my body is; I did not look at any misconceptions and expectations of what it 'should' be, or what the advertisements make me wish it could be, and I realized, with all my imperfections, how amazing I am.
From the top of my head, white or red, down to my eyes that still work okay and do so even better with glasses, to my skin on my face which has withstood some significant pre-cancer treatment, to my ears that still hear birdsong and bee buzz and leaf rustle and music, to my teeth that are still chomping away, to my chin that is strong, to my neck which has the same creases that my mother's did, to my shoulders which are wide and sturdy, to my breasts which are losing some gravity but still I have them both - more than some of my dear friends can say. I fed six babies with them, and I am so grateful to have had that time with my babies. Continuing to my belly which is crisscrossed with stretch marks from carrying seven babies, three of whom weighed in at almost ten pounds or more, I earned every single scar and I would do it all again. So many women struggle to conceive and I was so blessed. I have had surgeries that have left scars on my belly and my knee, but my legs are strong and I can work hard. I've had surgery on my hand, and always thought I have big hands, and I'm so glad I do. My hands are not manicured anymore, they're freckled and a little bit beat up, but they can clean and cook and type and sew and hold my loved ones' hands quite well. My feet are a bit of a problem but I can walk.
When I finished with my inventory, there was another part of me that checked in as working efficiently. My tears. I looked at this beautiful woman in the mirror, with such a perfectly imperfect body, and I wept for the gifts I have been given and for the cocreation I shared with God. As this salt water trickled down my face, I felt waves of light and love and so much gratitude. I realized that 'enough' can have a different meaning to each and every person in our life, but the only person who gets to create the definition of your 'enough' is you. All those magazines and TV commercials and Pinterest posts and comparisons geared to make us feel like we are less, and also sometimes the people around us who put expectations out there that are so unhealthy, well, they are wrong. That's when the L'Oreal ad came to mind but I'd like to take the liberty to change it a little bit:
'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful;love yourself because you are beautiful too.'
