Earning My Stripes

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.