I am not conventionally beautiful.
I do not say that as an indictment or a declaration of sorrow over what I see in the mirror. It is simply a fact.
I am taller than average, with hips that are a bit wider than my narrow shoulders. My neck is a little longer than is typical. My hair is very thick and requires a handful of conditioner and TLC to be tamed, and its once natural blonde has a bit of “help” now. My nose is a bit more prominent than the pert noses of magazine cover models. My blue eyes need the assistance of glasses to read. My lips are full but pale. The plus side of still oiled skin is that I have very few wrinkles, but the minus side is a bit more shine and the occasional use f my daughter’s blemish cream. My feet are small for my height, but a bit bony. My hands look more like my mother’s each day…pianist’s hands, writer’s hands, but not as smooth as they were twenty years ago. My mid section is not hard and taut like the cover model on that most coveted issue of Sports Illustrated.
But here is the irony. When my body was young and very thin, when my hair was a bit softer and my hips a bit smaller…..I felt ill at ease with myself. Now, I embrace every curve, every rebellious curl, that callous on the knuckle of my middle finger from hours of writing, nose that fits my rounded face, the imperfections that tell the world I have lived and have given birth to life. Even those little dimples that hundreds of repetitions at the hip abductor cannot seem to chase away.
No, I may not be conventionally beautiful. But when I look in the mirror and inside myself, I see beauty. And I am thankful. And confident. And womanly.
And it only took 43 years……smile.