The other day, I was sitting at the beach, and I found
myself observing a trio of early-twenty-somethings, adding color to their
already perfectly tan, bikini-ready bodies. I felt myself getting Why can’t I look like that anymore? rang
in my head.
down.
I gave myself a mental slap to the face. Reality check.
I wouldn’t trade an ounce of my “it comes with age” wisdom
for a slimmer waistline or perkier boobs.
When I look at myself, I see that my flaws, my imperfections
are an embodiment of experience. That extra bit of weight? It’s childbirth and
career goals and birthday cake and afternoon tea at a café in England and chilaquiles
at a beach bar in Mexico. It stores memories. Those crinkles around my eyes?
They’re from smiles and laughter and sunshine and love. I will gladly add more.
But there’s also strength - both
physical and metaphorical – from making better choices, slowly becoming a
runner, learning to love myself, carrying the weight of motherhood.
So I squashed that hint of envy and watched my daughter play
in the sand with joyful abandon.
