I went in the pool this weekend with my family, and at one point, I got out to use the restroom, to pee, because I ain't a pool pee-er if I can help it.
And as I was washing my hands, I caught a glance and my still-pretty wet, not so pretty, no makeup-wearing, eye-brow lacking, getting older-self and thought
"Holy heck, where have all these upper and lower eyelid wrinkles come from? Why are my crow's feet so gaping? You could fit a day's worth of groceries in the bags under my eyes! When did I start to look like this?"
And then I looked down at my left hand and thought, "Well, I'm married, and marriage is hard. Good, but hard."
And I looked past my hand and down at my lower belly and thought, "Well, I've birthed and am raising three kids, and being a mom is hard. Good, but hard."
And suddenly, my appearance made more sense, my disgust by it faded away, and my adoration and appreciation for it surfaced.
I look rough because life is rough, and I'm freakin' living life.
Living MY BEST life surrounded by the ones who drain me dry but fill me full of gratitude that I get to live my days with them by my side.
It's far too easy to hate how you look. To hate how time has changed you.
"But you don't do easy. You take on the hard with the strength of a beautiful beast, and there is nothing more impressive and stunning than that," I tell myself.
I walked out of that bathroom thinking,
"Okay, sure, perhaps I'm not a looker no more, but at least I'm leaving this bathroom a self-loving, life-living, experience-wearing, strong as hell woman, and these wrinkles wreaking havoc on my face, they are pleasantly proof of such.”
I could get rid of them, I know that, but I don’t dare steal from my face the evidence that I’ve been showing mine and showing up every gosh darn day of my life.