Women are hung up on their bodies. Generally speaking, of course. I’d like to be able to state that I am one woman who doesn’t fret about my body shape, or weight. But that would be an outright lie.
I have body image issues.
Even twenty-odd years ago, when I was twenty-odd kilos lighter, I still thought I was a chubster. I found fault with what I saw in the mirror. Plump thighs, a tummy with a small non-pregnancy related bump. Gosh I’d love to give my twenty-year old self a telling off.
Hubster and I are off to Sydney in two weeks for a 60th birthday party. I bought a new dress and new shoes for the occasion (any excuse). The shoes were shipped to me today, so I gave the outfit a test run here in my home to see how it all came together. In the mirror, reflected back at me stood a middle-aged woman wearing a burnt-orange linen dress with navy wedges. I had messy hair, no makeup. No spray tan or mani/pedi.
AND I LIKED WHAT I SAW.
I looked stylish. Smokin’ (not easy for me to own that, by the way).
I promise myself that I will own it. I will recall the feeling of liking the image before me. I will be confident and proud and strong.
I am woman, hear me roar.