Some posts I write to share my point of view.
Others I post to share lessons learned.
Still others are to explore a struggle.
I’m not totally sure which reason fits this post, probably a bit of all three.
Tonight unfolded like most Fridays.
I walk in the door and my husband has 80% of dinner finished.
We kiss, I put away my lunch bag, purse, jacket.
Off come the shoes, off comes the work clothes.
I put on something comfy cozy (tonight that ensemble included fluffy purple socks),
then back to the kitchen to see how I could help.
He said what he says most often to that question.
“Just sit down, relax, and look pretty.”
I said, as I usually do, something disparaging.
Tonight it was “If I knew that would be my assignment I’d have kept my work clothes on.”
Sometimes I tell him ‘two out of three isn’t bad.”
Other times I ask him for an easy assignment.
Rarely do I believe it is a possible task.
Bless the man; he keeps trying.
I am keenly aware of the approaching milestone birthday, even if it is a few years away.
Part of my mind has already embraced it and started thinking of living in a new decade.
No matter that I am not actually through with this one yet.
I know the change is coming.
As I get ready each day I inspect myself in the mirror.
(Careful to stand just close enough to see me,
and still far enough for my wobbly nearsighted-farsightedness to make up its mind and bring me into focus.)
I check for the lines around my eyes,
are they deeper?
My neck!
( My poor neck.
The only advantage I had by being overweight was that the skin on my chins was taut.
True, it was filled with fat.
But it WAS taut.
OK.
It was swollen and big.
OK?
But neck minus fat equals crepe-y skins and I carefully step too close to the mirror so it blurs just a little.
Less weight is worth it, I repeat to myself firmly.
And try one more day to believe it.)
My clothes fit, now.
Down three dress sizes from this time last year, I feel fashionable when dressed.
But do I feel my own beauty?
Am I confident of that?
On most days: no.
Some of that I suspect is the awareness of age.
Some of it might be the wearing away of emotional armor I’ve worn for years.
Some of it might be… might be what?
Maybe a reluctance to see that it could be as good as it ever is going to get?
Maybe I’m trying to get the spirit inside me to match the observable outside of me.
Maybe I’m teetering into balance.
Maybe I’m a work in progress….
Maybe that’s, ultimately, what we all are?
So I’ll keep trying to help my husband, Fridays at dinner,
by sitting at the table and looking pretty.
I listen to him talk about his day,
about the weekend plans.
I let myself feel how blessed we are to be together.
(The dinner was a delicious blessing, too. This man can COOK!)
Sometimes I look up and see him just staring at me.
‘What? What is it?”
Nothing, he says, I just like looking at you.
And he smiles.
Sometimes,
Those times,
I feel beautiful.
(This post is part of the #Write31Days Challenge)
Pocket Change 