That title is not a sweeping statement for all people in their forties. This is specifically written about me. Navel-gazing, me-me-me in full effect. Largely in part because I have been in a funk and I read this little wisp of wonder over at Cup of Jo and it struck me as incredibly wise. Here are the words:
It doesn’t make sense to call ourselves ugly, because we don’t really see ourselves. We don’t watch ourselves sleeping in bed, curled up and silent with chests rising and falling with our own rhythm. We don’t see ourselves reading a book, eyes fluttering and glowing. You don’t see yourself looking at someone with love and care inside your heart. There’s no mirror in your way when you’re laughing and smiling and happiness is leaking out of you. You would know exactly how bright and beautiful you are if you saw yourself in the moments where you are truly yourself.
I knew that it made sense and was a sentiment that I could use, but somehow the reflection that I catch in the passenger side window is never what I see in the mirror, the bedhead that looks silky and amazing, looks oily and what-was-I-thinking as soon as it sees the light of day.
I pulled on my favorite jeans this morning. They still fit perfectly, but I’ve noticed lately that my waist is not as taut as it once was. I look fine, but there is a sensation that makes me not feel super awesome. Same goes for bras. I cringe when I hear the term muffin top or back fat. I put on tanks tops and think, “Eeesh, maybe not.” I just wish I didn’t feel so soft and overflowy.
Tonight after a particularly amazing dinner, which everyone participated in grocery shopping for, we were all rosy cheeked and giggly from laughing together, when Sean pulled me into a dancing embrace. I laughed and hugged him back. We whispered about the recorder and drum playing that had sparked the comical dance. I took his hand and put it on my waist as the girls thundered into the room.
“This is what my 40s feel like on me,” I said holding his hand along the waist of my jeans and the line of insubordinate flesh.
He pulled me close and squeezed me, “Are you kidding? This?” he said rubbing my side, “This is curvaceous-aces. This is the stuff.”
I didn’t wriggle away. I didn’t tell him he was wrong. I kissed him hard and told him he was amazing.
Then the girls, embroiled in some weird piggy back race screamed at each other, “Do me. Do me. Do me from the back,” and the unintentional comedy siren sounded.