I think my best friend at the time kept pushing me to shave my legs and get a "training bra". Something I would have never wanted to do on my own. When I came to my mother about these things, she all but scoffed.
"Why would you want to shave your legs!? Then you have to just keep shaving them. It's such a pain. Put it off as long as you can."
"A bra!? Sweetie, you don't need that yet."
Don't even get me started on her opinion of make up before the age of 30!!
Even through my high school and college years, with my "athletic build" (aka lucky to even call them A cups, AKA pecs) my mother continued to be surprised that I would opt to wear a bra. As if it were an option!!?? We call this a societal norm, mother. *eye roll*
In hindsight, I realize that hair growing, Birkenstock wearing, bra-avoiding woman is and always was a hippie. Nevertheless, her "natural beauty" tendencies rubbed off on me. I couldn't help but agree, shaving is a pain (maybe that's why I swam, so I had an excuse not to), bras uncomfortable and make-up cumbersome. Add to this my impatience, inability to sit still and the tooth sensitivity of a 97 year old, we have the perfect storm of NO DESIRE to maintain hair nor face. Especially, in the spa type setting.
Part of my wants to believe my mother. That natural beauty is best. That I got her wonderful Lebanese skin, not my father's Irish genes. That I don't need to have a morning and night routine for my face. That it's ok to go 6-10 months between hairs cuts and 4-8 months between coloring. That maybe it's ok to just go grey. That even though I simply shower and put lotion on my face every 1-4 days, I will avoid that bastart named time. Sucking the life away from my once beautiful, youthful, strong, tight skin and body.
Yet, the logical side of my knows this isn't possible. I am not special. Then there's the perfectionist side of me (which I attempt to suppress on an hourly basis) can't just "let myself go".
I am finally getting to that point in life, where I look at pictures of myself and think, "Oh god. Delete that!!! I can't possibly, actually, in real life, look like that...f%#*" Delete. Delete. Delete. Please god, that was bad lighting or a f%#*ed up lens. Right!?
Based on the increasing frequency of this occurrence as well as the ever-evolving improvement of the phone camera...I think I might actually look like that.
I am 35, and, with this recent Achilles tendon rupture during a fun game of pickleball, feeling every bit of that age.
My hair is greying. My wrinkles becoming more evident. (Do I continue to lose weight and allow the wrinkles to multiply, or just keep the pounds which support my baby face?! Descisions, decisions.) My rosie red cheeks (also known as the skin condition Rosacea) is no longer "cute". Nor are the freckles (AKA sun spots, AKA pre-cancer) that fill my face, shoulders, arms and quite possibly back (I mean, I can't see back there.)
Basically, what I am trying to say, is that I have moments where I've decided, I'm too far gone. Time has done it again. Never will my skin, hair, body, ever look youthful again without some MAJOR help. The effort of which I don't think I'll ever be ready to give.
Then, I have a busy Saturday of running around, taking my children to sporting events, prepping for a birthday party scheduled for the next day. I'm Gimping about in my boot, feeling old and decrepit and questioning why I committed to going to a wedding tonight as well. Before I know it, the sitter will be arriving in 25 minutes, and I haven't even showered! Nor has Matt.
I sprint {hobble} to the shower, I dry my hair, I lather on some tinted face moisturizer and a bit of bronzer, eye shadow/liner/mascara and blush (because the Rosacea isn't red enough) as the straightener warms up...run it through my hair a few times, and we're off to the show.
I insist on a few selfies, because, well, we are somewhat put together for the first time in a few months...and low and behold!!!!!???
