I walked out of a store, bags in hand, and into a steamy rush of July humidity - forty degrees of it. My husband had just gotten out of the car to come in and get me, so he opened my door for me. "A creepy guy kept checking me out in there," I said. "He was leering."
"I don't blame him," was my husband's ready reply. "You're hot."
Well, yes, I was - my dress was sticking to me, my face was red, my hair was plastered to the nape of my neck - but that's not what my husband meant. He meant I was attractive, worthy of the attention. I smiled and thanked him. And, in a turn I wouldn't have thought I'd come to years ago, I believed him.
Years ago I was like a lot of my peers. I didn't believe I was beautiful. Oh, I didn't think I was ugly, but certainly not stunning. Everything was a comparison. I wasn't thin like my friend C. I didn't have the amazing smile of my cousin K. My hair would never look as lustrous as that girl at church. This shirt would probably look much better on J.
Sound familiar?
How did it change for me?
Well, having a man desire me and marry me didn't help. Losing weight, getting a haircut, finding a perfect pair of jeans - none of that made any difference. Having a baby made things worse because now I was insecure in my parenting choices AND my extra ten pounds and stretch marks.
A few years later, my husband and son and I were walking on an old logging road - one of our favourite haunts. My husband took a photo of my son and I walking away from him, and I looked at the preview in the viewfinder. I wrinkled my nose and said, "Ugh, my butt looks HUGE."
My husband - ah, my husband, the most patient of patient men, kindest and gentlest person I know, stopped right up, looked at me, and said, "Don't ever say that in front of our children."
Usually my response to something like this would be to argue. Humbled, I said, "Alright," and we carried on with our walk, chatting about this and that. But I didn't forget it.
He was right. Why would I want to spread my toxic self-image to my children? Would I want my children, who share genetics with me, to think they are less than beautiful because they resemble me in some way? Of course not. And, like every mother out there, I believe my children are the most beautiful people in the world. We-ell: they got some of that beauty from me. (I won't lay claim to the green, wide eyes or ginger hair, though.)
Slowly, I began to look at myself differently. I started by responding to compliments with 'Thank you!' instead of 'Oh, this old thing? It barely fits!' or 'Well I don't feel particularly stunning today!' I began looking at myself in the mirror and admiring myself instead of counting my physical faults. You know, it's nice being tall. I have long, strong legs that look great in a skirt. I have an hourglass figure that was made for curve-hugging dresses. My hair is soft and pretty. My face is friendly. I am beautiful in MY way. I am the only one who can make myself that way - therefore, I am.
Instead of jealously comparing myself to others, I now find myself celebrating their beauty for what it is - not in comparison to mine, not in what they are lacking or what they possess, but just for them, as a whole. I allow myself to see my body through the eyes of my husband, who still - after 10 years together - finds me delectably lovely and has never had a negative word to say about my appearance. I allow my children to hear me say, "Wow, I love this dress on me!" or "My hair looks fantastic today!"
This is not an easy road to travel for everyone, I know. I was coming from a place of general apathy about my looks, not self-loathing, and I have the support of a good man and wonderful friends who compliment me and children who still see me through eyes that see no flaws.
Try it, just once. Go ahead. Let yourself think you are fine the way you are. No, not even fine - perfect. Even if the moment is fleeting for you (for we all know how hard it is to deviate from years of thinking), relish in it. You are lovely.
No comments:
Post a Comment