I was looking in the
mirror and before I knew it 20 minutes had gone by and I had just been staring,
looking at each feature and breaking me down. My history defines me in that
each burst of laughter caused wrinkles, and slight worry lines define where my emotion
has been. As I see myself aging over the years I see it creeping, my face is
changing, my body even more so.
I think I got lost
for a while as to what I want to look like and what emotions I want to display
on this body of canvas. As I looked deeper at each split end and pair of bushy
eyebrows (man, I need to tweeze), I look beyond the artificial clear completion
as I wipe away the concealer. I rub off the thickness of the mascara and look
at the bare eyes that stare before me. They aren’t as fierce as when I wear my
eye makeup-mask. They look more used and tired looking, a little puffy and a
little red. But they came to look this way
from late night bottle runs, teething gel supermom, and extra nights working
new shop designs.
I look at the 3 permanently popped blood vessels that appear
like little red dots, and I see the labor I went through when I had no drugs
and I was pushing my hardest to get the baby out. I look at my bare arm and I
see freckles from being a childhood beach baby. I see that now a days, they are
bigger, and a little more defined from all the baby lifting, car seat swinging,
and rocking of babies to sleep. Below that, I see my hands. Those too are beginning
to show signs of wear and tear. A little too rough for being womanly hands,
little scars from clumsy accidents of my past are just the beginning. My nails
are slightly weak and bitten down (I need to remember to take my vitamins). I paint my nail at all times, because my
thumbs have bumpy nails and look ugly bare. Soon, I see where my hands lie, next to my stomach. Oh
God, not the stretch marks that reflect that extra milk shake I would huff down
when I was preggo and of course the 2, 7 pound babies I huffed out.
I have a
little extra skin now, memories of warming my babies as they grew inside of me.
It still trips me out that we as women actually grow human beings in us. Beyond
my belly making abdomen, I see thighs thicker, hips wider, paper white skin and
even more stretch marks. My feet are longer now from growing a half a size with
each child. My husband jokes that my feet are clown approved. I am imperfect
beneath what clothes me. I fake a perfect face. I grow my hair long so people
see it, and not the rest of my imperfection.
With all this
imperfection how does one reflect confidence, or laugh at silly moments. How
does one not worry about enjoying life when imperfections are appearing as time
evades me?
Fake it to make it.
Close your eyes and
own it.
Remind yourself that
you are strong, you can do anything.
Life, laugh and love
is what it comes down too. I want people to remember me as the one who laughed
often with her children and loved ones. I want to be remembered for the love I
poured into others hearts, not the worry of being imperfect around them. I want
to be remembering for the life I loved and not the life I planned on living. I
want to be remembered for how I made people feel and not how people saw me.
