I’ve never been defined by how I look. When I was a size 2, by a genetic fluke not by actually trying, I got compliments: I won’t lie about that. I got the envious comments. I got the holy moly skinny looks. All that which will define some for the rest of their life did not define me. This is good because I can assure you I am no longer a size 2. There is a 2 in the size that I am but it definitely has a 1 in front of it.
My eyes get a bit of attention as they are a bit weird-looking. My mother has advised, in a loving way I’m sure, that my eyes are husky eyes. They are a very odd light grey blue but not always. That is probably the weird part. My eyes change color. Not just a bit but a lot. From a very dark blue to a light green and apparently right in front of people. It would be a great party trick if I knew how to make it happen but alas the power eludes me still.
This is the extent of my being defined by my looks. I’ve had, as I’m sure we’ve all had, those moments where I wish things wouldn’t jiggle quite so much. I’ve been in the exercise zone and loved the muscles and the flexibility. But the exercise impeded my reading and tea time and so apparently jiggling is the definition I am most comfortable with for this body of mine. My eyes will always be the same size while my butt will decidedly not. The proof is in the 12 my friends. Of this, I am not afraid. I am not defined by that number. I would rather be weird.
Why is this important you ask ? Because living in our youth obsessed, wrinkle-phobic, I’m-so-pretty-look-at-my-butt-bounce society is terrifying for anyone defined solely by how they look. I imagine that having lived your life turning heads, being called beautiful and living up to that hype must be exhausting. Having to fight against gravity every day ? Meh. Too much work. This is why I got my tattoo on my lower calf: how much further does it have to go ? Nothing looks worse than that ever so precious unicorn that started out on your lower back which is now pointing it’s horn in to your butt crack.
Tonight the good Miss W. reaffirmed what I already knew: the work I do on my inside is far more important than what I do to my outside. I could have multiple things sucked out and put back where God never intended and that is not going to fix my broken soul if it’s need of repair. It’s like spackle people. It only covers up the real problem. Obsessing about how I look and how other people are looking at me is a waste of time, energy and precious brain space. Unless there is a bat in the cave and then don’t just look, do me a favor and step up with a kleenex. Seriously. That I care about.
My body will continue to change and grow and shrink and fall and lift and separate for the rest of my life. For this I am thankful. I am thankful that my body is still willing and able to take me on adventures, to feel the sun on my face, to jump in rain puddles (yes I still do that), to be amazed by the beauty around me on this wonderful planet. It has been able to birth and feed two babies. It has carried me through sickness and health. It has helped me to experience my life. And all without lipstick and lipo.
My definition will continue to change through out my life. My face will continue to wrinkle as I smile with love and gratitude. I will continue to periodically make half-hearted attempts at diet and exercise in the hopes to stave off serious jiggling. With my new career in public relations, perhaps I will take the time to take care of myself and put on a pretty face. Perhaps I will occasionally remember to put on lipstick disgusting as it is. Perhaps I’ll just get a pair of super fantastical glasses so that everybody will just be looking at my amazing eyes. They are the true window to my soul anyway. And isn’t that, after all, what we should truly be defined by ?