I am 33.

I weigh 203 pounds.

I have kinky hair.

I have curves that fill clothes out in all the right places.

And for the first time in my life, I am appreciative of it all.

I’ve spent far too many years looking forward to where I wanted to be, ignoring where I actually was.

We all want to be older when we are kids. We can’t wait to be 10. We can’t wait to be 13. We can’t wait to get our licenses. Or be old enough to not have to hope the homeless guy hanging out in front of the closest liquor store to campus will actually return with our hard earned cash and our cheap vodka.

I suppose it’s normal enough. As is the eventual wish to be granted the power to slow down when our own little ones are growing before our very eyes; their hopes to be bigger and older reminding us of how fast it really goes by.

Then there are the Untils...You know, the ones that are supposed to come prepackaged with happiness and a pretty little bow?

I can’t wait until I lose (five, 10, 20, 50) pounds. I’ll celebrate with a cruise.

I can’t wait until I can do downward facing dog without looking like a hospital patient in traction. That’s when I’ll know yoga is working for me.

Or: I can’t wait until I get that (tummy tuck, boob lift, nose job). I’ll feel so good about myself then.

But what about now? Why put our happiness and self-worth on hold for a future we can’t predict, no matter how hard we workout, how many calories we count, or how much we plan to take out of our retirement funds to pay for that plastic surgery? Why not just open our eyes, look in a mirror, and be happy with what is?

I’ve spent so much energy planning for a better/skinnier/prettier me when I should have been saving some of that Until for the Here and Now. I’m not telling you to forget about your health goals or to give up on your dreams of a six-pack, but I am asking you to take a moment to honor the you in the mirror. The one looking back at you this very minute. The one who deserves to be applauded for getting out of bed another day and just fucking trying.

There’s a photo of me on my dresser that The Husband took on our first vacation together. I was 21 and looking happy, care-free, and thin…

There are times I look at my former self and wish I could look like that again. That my thighs would be as toned. My waist as trim. But that’s the hindsight talking. If you had asked the me in the photo how I felt, I would have told you I couldn’t wait until

Until what? I lost 10 more pounds? So I could look exactly like I did in high school?

But the high school me wasn’t happy, either. She was miserable and lost in sea of self-loathing, only coming up for air to binge again in preparation for the next purge. But both the 33-year-old me and the 21-year-old me wish that we could go back in time and explain to the 15-year-old with the eating disorder that she is beautiful. That she is not meant to look like the cheerleaders she admires.

That her curves are something to be admired, not cursed. That her body is exactly what it should be.

Maybe the 15-year-old would have listened. Maybe she would have realized that the reflection she sees in the mirror needs acceptance and love. Maybe it would have made all the difference in the world.

I am 33.

I weight 203 pounds.

I have kinky hair.

I have curves that fill out clothes in all the right places.

And I am beautiful.

Now it’s your turn. What will you tell the woman looking at your from the other side of the mirror?

***

This post originally appeared on Bookieboo.

 

Patience is not a virtue I am very familiar with.

Ask anyone I know. Check my tweet stream. Search the term “query” on my blog.

I suck at waiting and letting the universe do its thing.

It’s why The Husband purposely waited 18 months to propose when he was still The Boyfriend. You know, to prove a point. It’s probably why the the Universe made me wait 18 months before granting my wish to get pregnant. And it’s probably…

Oh shit. I just looked at the numbers. I started the query process last July. At this rate, I should probably stop holding my breath, yeah? But wait, that was totally not the point.

The actual point I was attempting to come to before becoming sidelined by a shiny new thought was this: I suck at patience. The Universe knows it. So it makes me wait for anything worth while. Just because it can.

I recently got a little reminder in practicing the fine art of patience (and the even finer art of follow-through)  when a long time goal finally came to fruition. Going back and forth with Lissa Rankin — one of my favorite writers — via email regarding her anthology contribution, I finally got the nerve to ask about that Owning Pink featured blogger application I had put in sometime last year.

Lissa graciously suggested I contact the site editor to follow up, which was fine with me. I wasn’t looking for favors. Just conformation that the application I had turned in had actually been received.

Turns out it had been but life got in the way. I was then asked to resubmit my application essay and promptly notified that I had been selected as a new blogger for the site.

It never occurred to me to get pissy about how long I had waited to get that yes. In fact, I can say with complete honesty that the only thought in my mind was, “Really? They like my writing? This is soooo fucking cool!”

When I first submitted that essay, I email stalked myself, expecting the Universe to pony up with a response so I could quickly move on the next submission obsession, just like I do every time I send out a brand new query letter. And just like the car keys I can never find until I stop looking for them, the response never comes until I’m not looking for it, either.

Sometimes, it’s not the answer I was hoping for. This time, it was.

 

Because it’s April Fool’s and nothing on the World Wide Web is going to be taken seriously today, I will pretend the following List of Random Facts About Me is Worth Reading.

*The Hamster Dance is my favorite song. Shut up.

*I was a B-cup when I was eight. One night I went to bed and woke up the next day with boobs big enough for my mother to turn me sideways and immediately call her friends asking for bras they didn’t need. #truestory

*I like to use random hash tags in my every day conversations. Most of the time, I am the only one who can see the # in my head. Other times, @HC_Palmquist responds to me in #randomhashtagspeak, because she speaks my language.

*I grew up speaking English and Spanish. Buttercup speaks Dora Spanish. *shrugs shoulders*

*I can’t refuse to parallel park.

*Coconut tastes like paper to me. The Husband thinks and probably rightfully so that I should be institutionalized for this very reason.

*I still want a finger monkey.

*And an agent.

*A book deal would kick some major ass.

*I bit a boy on the arm when he pinned me during a game of tag in the third grade. The kicker? He never talked to me again. And he grew up to be really fucking hot.

*I roll my R’s when I say the word “three.”

*I also can’t say the word “Pina Colada” without a Spanish accent. Or names like “Antonio Banderas.”

*Related: I have Movie Only thing for Antonio Banderas. Like the movie El Mariachi? Aye, M’ijita. But real life? I’ll take The Husband.

*The Husband uses the word “supposably.” Often. Miraculously, we are still married. Probably because his use of the word “supposably” is met with a complete resistance on my part to learn how to check my own oil. It’s kind of a standoff.

*The first story I ever wrote was titled Crashing in the Backyard of the White House. The plot had something to do with two female pilots on their way to deliver Something Important and their crash in the backyard of the White House. Riveting, I know. I was eight. So were the main characters.

*I cried when Buttercup learned how to roll. Not because I was giddy she had learned a new skill but because the lifetime of worrying what her next move would be kicked off at That Very Moment.

*I am the oldest of five girls.

*There are five of us because Mom and Dad were trying for a boy.

*They eventually gave up.

*I told The Husband I will get pregnant and push a kid out my cabbage two times. If he wants more, he is allowed encouraged to knock someone else up.

*I played the flute in high school. I also went to band camp.

*I worked as a waitress in a strip club while in college. Yes, I was fully (kind of) clothed. My lesson to the world? If a man pays $12 for a “mixed drink” for a stripper he is trying to impress, he probably just bought her the world’s most expensive glass of orange juice with a splash of grenadine.

*My mother told my father she was pregnant with sister #4 on April Fool’s. Consequently, he didn’t believe her when she mentioned sister #5 would be making an appearance.

*I chew my ice cream.

*I have a semi-photographic memory but can’t remember where I put the car keys five minutes ago.

*My first job out of college was as a city editor for a small town newspaper. By the time I left the newsroom to be a SAHM, I covered two high profile murder cases and had my picture taken with the Stanley Cup.

*This is my third blog and second twitter identity.

*Scrubs made me cry during every episode when I was pregnant.

*I wanted to be Lady Jane and Wonder Woman when I was a kid.

*I still want to be Lady Jane and Wonder Woman.

*I swear #hittingsend on anything important is the Big Bang equivalent for typos that had not previously existed to come into being.

*I swallowed a marble when I was five.

*And almost drowned at the kitchen table when I was 21.

*Accident prone is kind of an understatement.

*The Husband and The Father-in-Law have the same name.

*Related? I accidentally called The Father-in-Law one thinking he was The Husband.

*Luckily, I didn’t start the conversation off with, “So…what are you wearing?”

 

My world has to match.

It has to make sense.

Which is probably why Fashion Week, Vogue, and What Not to Wear all give me the hives just thinking about all the patterns arguing with each other.

My own wardrobe is bland by comparison. My favorite color is brown. Well, not literally, but you’d think it if you took a look in my closet. It matches everything (else in there) and I defend my lack of Pop by referring to my color choices as “earthy” instead of “drab.” And it’s fiscally responsible. If I bought red ballet flats, I would only be able to wear them with like, 3 outfits. How much sense does that make? And yet, it’s those little rainbow kisses that The Husband celebrates. He never tires of telling me how good that color looks on me or how nice it is to see me in something other than that damned brown.

It’s probably no surprise I wanted to be Punky Brewster when I was growing up. She was who she was and celebrated it every day when she got dressed. And screw you if you didn’t like what (the wardrobe people) had decided to dress the character in for that day’s episode. She was who I wanted to be.

Reality was who I was.

It’s who I am.

Which is why I sometimes find myself struggling as Buttercup grows up into a free-thinking little person with definite opinions on what she will and will not wear. The child has been dressing herself since she was 18 months old, but it was a lot easier when she couldn’t see beyond the two pre-planned outfits I was letting her choose between.

Now?

Some days, she picks stuff like this…

…and I find myself biting my tongue. Who gives a shit if the pink socks should be white? Or if I would never have paired those leggings with those shoes?

She’s happy.

Her world doesn’t have to match.

And it still makes perfect sense to her.

Copyright 2010 Aspiring Mama Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha
Social links powered by Ecreative Internet Marketing