Someone quite close to me sent me a rather rude email the other day, stating their disapproval of a photograph of me that I’ve posted on social media. This one:
When asked what was wrong with it, I was told that I “look tired” in it. My initial response, understandably, was to feel hurt. My next response was to send a snarky email back with an equally rude comment about that person’s appearance in a recent photograph. Not very mature of me.
I wrote again to apologise for responding so rudely, and pointed out that this person hasn’t seen me in the flesh for a while, and that I now “look tired” all the time. You see, the thing is, I have these things called kids, and they like to wake me up several times in the night before waking for good at the crack of dawn.
Then I often have to carry on and go to work the next day because, you know, I have a mortgage. Or I spend the whole day looking after my sweet sleep-stealers and catering to their every need. If I have any time to spare between work and childcare, I try and do a bit of exercise, or clean my house, or have a social life, or I blog a bit because it makes me feel happier when I’m sad or stressed.
If this person had seen a full-length picture of me, they no doubt would have commented upon the size of my arse as well. I’m well aware that my youngest is two-and-a-half and I haven’t “lost the baby weight”. I have some clothes in my wardrobe that I’m still hoping will fit me again some day.
So we’ve established that I’m tired and overweight. And when I look in the mirror, or hear/read someone’s cruel comment, I’m reminded that by society’s standards, I’m not the hottest thing going. Perhaps my milkshake wouldn’t bring all the boys to the yard.
But then again … maybe it would. Because I think I look better than I ever have in my whole life. Wrinkles, grey hairs, stretch marks, cellulite thighs and all. And that’s saying a lot because I fit the society bill when I was 21:
I was young once and effortlessly thin. But when I look at old pictures of myself I think “what a waste” because I was beautiful but I didn’t appreciate it. I see a girl who was desperately insecure. Who didn’t appreciate her flat stomach because the skin still bunched into folds when I sat down (now I know the only way to stop that is to have no skin, or Photoshop). Who didn’t appreciate her cellulite-free thighs because she was all stressed out about how to remove every trace of hair from them. Who despaired of a head of hair that stubbornly refused to emulate that of a Disney princess.
I also see a young woman who was actually pretty selfish a lot of the time. Who was astoundingly ignorant of the world around her. Who would call in sick to work at the drop of a hat. Hey, former self … there is no such thing as a sick day when you have kids around. Prepare yourself!
But this post is not about bashing my former self. Except to point out that youth is utterly wasted on the young. I can’t necessarily be blamed for my former insecurities, but I can learn a lesson from them.
Because when I look in the mirror now, I really, truly like the way I look. I love my tired eyes.
There are little lines around my eyes from selfless nights of caring for my little ones when they were sick. There are lines from mourning for lost loved ones. There are lines from stress and worry.
But there are other little lines around my eyes from fun nights out with my friends. There are lines from laughing with my husband and kids. Those tired eyes have watched my babies grow up. When I look at them, I see someone who I am proud to be and who knows her worth.
I still don’t have Disney princess hair, but I have hair that is easy to style and that makes me feel confident and professional. I chose this hair after years of being too insecure to have it cut shorter than shoulder length, and now I’ve finally done what I want, I love it.
My stomach sports a healthy shelf of fat hanging over my c-section scar, liberally decorated with silvery stretch marks. Above, my breasts don’t quite point skywards like they once did. But they still look pretty darn good to me. I used those breasts to feed my babies. That stomach carried them for 9 months.
And when I put my hands on my own body, it feels like a woman’s body. It’s the body of someone who loves to eat and drink and have fun and I wouldn’t trade a single moment of that enjoyment for a flat stomach. It’s part of who I am today and I like that person.
So the next time someone makes you feel small for the way you look, remember the journey that took you there. And if you love the life you live and the person you are, then whatever body you have is part of that.
So next time you look in the mirror, find the love lines, the laugh lines, the great night down the pub folds, the cuddling my baby while eating biscuits wobbles. And just love every inch of yourself.