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No, I’m not talking about the sink holder in the bathroom.  I’m talking about how we look-or perceive how we look.  I used to think I was ugly.  “Homely”.  I was the fat girl with glasses that got picked on by everyone.  Really, I was.  I was in a juniors size 11 Palmetto jeans as a 5th grader.  I hated that my hair was stick straight.  I couldn’t get “mall hair” or those damn wings that all the girls did with their hair.  I could NEVER get my jeans to stay french rolled, and I never liked to double color my socks-my shoes squeezed my feet when I wore 2 pairs of socks.  I tried SO FUCKING HARD to fit in, when I should have been just me.  In high school, I FINALLY blossomed into me.  I LOVED my long straight hair-the 70’s came back then, and bitches had to straight iron and blow dry their hair to achieve what I got naturally.  HA HA, fuck you assholes.  I wore what I wanted-I didn’t give a SHIT what those fuckers thought was “cool” or “in”.  I realized THEN that it takes TOO MUCH MONEY and TOO MUCH TIME to act like everyone else, and who the FUCK wants to do THAT?!


fake tan 4


I don’t smoke, and I rarely drink-“and when I do, it’s the high dollar shit, and not in excess,” said in my Most Interesting Woman in the World voice.  I like what I fucking like.  I don’t spend HOURS getting my nails done EVERY FUCKING WEEK-waste of money, IMO, and it ruins my nails.  I WILL splurge for a pedicure now and then.  I slowly amass makeup-and it’s ONLY Urban Decay, and it’s taken me YEARS to get what I have, and I use it sparingly.  I don’t want to hide behind a mask.  Take me for who I am or fuck off.


beautiful woman looks in the mirror




But NOW…I’m noticing the LINES!!  There’s these two deep ones between my eyebrows, from the constant worry and thinking and sadness since April of last year.  God it’s almost been a year?!  There are lines around my eyes-but I like those.  My smile lines, my happy lines, my grateful to be alive lines.  But I look so fucking tired.  Too much thinking.  I have terrible spider veins on my legs that look like bruises from the 15 years of hard CNA work that HUUUUUUURT when I walk.  I had a dry spot on my thumb that turned out to be-GASP-warts!  BARF!  I had skin tags on my right under arm that I had removed.  WHY after AAAAALLLL this time?!  Because they bothered the fuck out of me.  The gap in my smile where I had a tooth pulled 10 years ago bothers me.  When I smile I see yellow teeth, but they really aren’t that yellow.  Why does it bother my NOW?!

Because I don’t feel attractive.  I feel like I’m getting ready to be put out to pasture and that my looks are what make me, well, ME.  And that’s just stupid!  I think it has to do with the years I spent with DB trying to reach an unattainable goal of the person he “wanted”-that bitch never existed-and the years of slow weight gain from meds.  Since leaving DB, and my surgery and breakdown and rebuild, I’ve lost 50 pounds.  FIFTY FUCKING POUNDS!  I am now the smallest-and probably most healthy-I’ve ever been in my life.  My sister gave me a fucking HUGE trash bag full of clothes SHE couldn’t fit in.  I’m finally smaller than my sister, size wise.  But I fucking walk like a bazillion steps a day.  My ass looks fabulous.  My belly is a little jiggly, but it’s ALOT smaller-my arms too.  I’m on my way to wearing a size medium-shirts and non-existent panties.  But WHY does it matter so fucking much?!

Because media and society-and my family, unintentionally, but still-have drilled into my head that my size matters on who will like and want me.  WTF REALLY?!  What the hell does my jean size have to do with the size of my caring heart?  NOT A GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING THING.  Now I have to teach my daughter that she isn’t fat.  That her size isn’t what will make people like her.  It’s her caring and helpful nature, her kind and giving heart.  The same with my son.  Both my kids are like me-very emotional, and loving and kind and helpful.  Their feelings get hurt SO easily when someone says “I don’t like you because of X”.  So I’m explaining to them, “People are assholes.  But think of why they aren’t able to really tell you the reason they are upset.  Maybe they can’t tell you, so it’s easier to say ‘I don’t like you’.  Maybe they don’t have a mommy and/or daddy at home to help them grow.  I love you very much, and I will help you grow.”  Sometimes it’s over my daughter’s head-she’s only 8, after all, but my son is slowly starting to understand.  And I tell them BOTH-what you look like isn’t as important as what’s INSIDE.  If people can’t see you for that, then that’s THEIR loss.  And that makes me think of all the people who treated me like shit, and maybe how miserable they are in life.  And I really do say a little silent prayer that they can find some kind of peace in their life.  Because I’ve found mine.  And I’m happy-I don’t like the way it’s etched on my face, but there are my battle scars.  The lessons I’ve learned and earned, and NO ONE can take that growth away from me.