My hair is frizzy and unruly. It curls in all the wrong places and is sprinkled with grey. The frizz reminds me of my ethnic heritage. It makes me proud of who I am. The grey, although covered by hair dye for sheer vanity, is a sign that although older, I am still on the planet and able to enjoy life. I am beautiful.
My face is full of wrinkles. I look my age. Crow's feet can easily be seen at the corners of my eyes. The corners of my lips are even worse. They droop down and make me look like I'm frowning all the time. Lipstick bleeds when I try to wear it, and eye shadow pools into the crevices of my cavernous eyelids. Although I have to wear glasses to read anything, I can read. I can see the blue of the sky and the sparkle of the sun. I can laugh and smile to turn my wrinkled frown into a grin. I am beautiful.
At five foot two, I have to hem every pair of pants I buy. I can never see anything over a crowd. I have to move the car seat all the way up to reach the pedals, and then the steering wheel jabs me in the belly. I can't see the price of goods on the top shelf at the grocery store. Although I am clearly too short, I know how to sew. I can hem my pants. I own a step ladder that enables me to reach almost everything. My height allows me to fit just perfectly under the arm of the man I love. I am beautiful.
My hands and arms have scars on them from multiple surgeries. My lack of grace regularly causes me to bump into things and scratch them up covering them with scabs adding new scars to the old. Dark freckles and age spots take over where the scars have left off. Although they are marred, my hands still allow me to tap out words on a keyboard allowing my thoughts to flow. My arms can still wrap around my loved ones and hold on tight. I am beautiful.
My belly has stretch marks on it that look like a road map. It sags with an overwhelming amount of loose skin. I have to tuck it into my pants. I wear out of style mom jeans to reach up over all the excess so it doesn't hang over the top and cut off my circulation. Each day I do this, it reminds me of the two beautiful children I have that caused this deformity. It reminds me of all the weight I lost to get in shape and be healthy. I am proud of my weight loss. I am more proud of my children. It makes me proud to carry around my loose skin trophy. I am beautiful.
My body is sick. I have an array of illnesses. I am old. I do not look like a fashion model. All the same, I am beautiful.