I can’t remember the last time I felt attractive. I blame this on the state of my hair, the aging of my skin, the flabbiness of my body and the fact that I’ve been pregnant three times in four years.
I blame it on the umbilical hernia that makes me look as if an alien is trying to escape my body through my belly button. I blame it on hormones, on the stress of life, on the fact that I’m always busy but I don’t always want to be busy so then I stop doing things and then I hate myself for not doing things.
I blame it on the fact that I don’t have the time for skin care and hair care and tweezing my eyebrows until they match (your eyebrows should be cousins, not twin sisters, btw).
I blame it on my husband. Surely he should make me feel better somehow? (Just “somehow” okay? I don’t have specifics). I blame it on the world – on the media, on Insta-fashion and reality tv shows advertising a life where everyone looks put together all the time.
I blame it on myself. Mostly on myself. I mean, even if you told me I look nice today, the little voice in the back of my head would tell me that you’re just saying so to be polite. Every time someone tells me how good I look, during this pregnancy, I want to tell them to shut their pie holes (I promise I’m not that rude though) because I feel ugly like, majority of the time. There, I said it.
The cool factor that I had going for me (when I was still, you know, cool) is gone. I’m old and boring now. The novelty of me – as the “cute wife” – has worn off. And I wonder if my Hubstopher regrets not choosing a younger version, when he decided to settle down.
I mean, I feel like I pretty much have the same form and functionality as the toaster or the TV’s remote control. Nothing to see here, move along. Unless you want a sandwich. I’m here for that.
Now, hear me out Oprah Winfrey. I get it… The fact that I’ve carried four whole children in my womb should flippen mean something. I’ve sacrificed my youth, my time and my body for something that yields a far greater reward than being able to fit into a size 26 jeans again. I should give myself a lot more credit than this. Seriously, Patricia, self pity is not a good look.
And anyways, my appearance doesn’t determine my worth… my value…my beauty. That’s kinda superficial and a really shallow way to think. Surely. Right?
But if we’re going to be honest, friends, we’re all this girl sometime or other. (Whether you’re pregnant or not). We have seasons where we try to love on ourselves and fail to do so because you just can’t find anything to love. We’re kinda hard on ourselves and on our beautiful, masterpiece-of-a-creation, bodies, creating boxes that MUST be ticked, before we deem it okay to be, well, exactly who we were created to be.
Does it make sense? Nope. Does it ever end? Well, I don’t know. Is it okay? Well, kinda no. It’s never okay to not love on yourself and the body that God has given you.
I’m learning that being me – the REAL me – is the most beautiful thing I could ever be… in all my stretch-marked, big-thighed, baggy-under-eyed glory. And I guess the real battle is getting to a place where I’m okay with being that girl, even on days when my jeans don’t fit.