At the pool this past weekend, I was amazed, saddened, fill-in-the-blank by the number of women lamenting their bodies.
I know what I’d like to get to…I’ve never been skinny…I hate my body…
I looked around at all the women sunning and realized that maybe two had great bodies – and two of them were teenagers. I can’t explain the other one. What I do know is that most women are not stick-thin with washboard abs, voluptuous breasts and a tiny waist.
Most women have bumps and flaws and flab and jiggle. Most women have chicken pox scars or stretch marks from bearing new life or age spots or gray hair or all of the above and more.
That’s being real. My husband points out his graying beard as if it’s equivalent and I have to sigh and say, “Honey, on you it looks debonair. On me it looks old.”
I hate that I give in to the pressure. I LOVE coloring my hair because I look at it as an accessory that I get to change on a whim and add character to my appearance. But the reality is that when I see all the new hairs on my head coming in silver, well, it makes me feel OLD.
Women bear the brunt of our unrealistic societal expectations. We are supposed to be perfect, right? Hard bodies and no lines. Forget dessert. Forget eating. Forget being real.
Well, I think it’s time we thumb our noses (or something more offensive) at those stupid expectations. Isn’t it better to be REAL? Human? Show the wear and tear of a life well-lived?
I wouldn’t be half the woman I am today without my three children so if I have to live with a muffin-top no matter how much tennis I play and yoga I do, well, that’s life. Seriously. That. Is. Life.
What will it take for all of us to collectively accept our bodies – droopy boobs and flat asses, all?
I’m listening. It’s time to put a stop to the self-critical whining we all succumb to (and have for years) and instead stand up and say, THIS IS WHO I AM. LOVE IT.
(Oh by the way, a size 6 is now considered a plus-size for models – you know what I have to say about that!)