I admit it. I have CELLULITE. Yes; that dreaded dimpling on the backs of my thighs and derriere… I’ve got it. Now, is it a feature that I’m particularly proud of; i.e. would I wear a thong bikini to the beach – HELL NO! But it’s not because I’m ashamed of my body- in fact quite the contrary. I love my body. I feel grateful when I wake up every morning and I can get out of my bed, unassisted and simply walk to the bathroom. I can see, I can touch, and I can be independent.
I know I’m starting to sound a bit preachy and annoying– but really how often do you honestly reflect on the gifts your body gives you and the miracle that it simply… works. And while I’d love this body which houses my soul- to be a perfect 7 (lord knows at 4 ft. 11″ inches there is no way I could ever conceive of being a 10) I’m not sure I’m willing to walk around angry and bitchy all day long because I’m starving.
Of course, when my ten year old gets nostalgic, starts flipping through old photo albums and remarks, in a completely innocent way, with a statement like, “Wow mommy you used to be SO SKINNY,” and repeats it five times in a row, sure it makes me ponder my much thinner days.
But when I look at those pictures I remember a girl- who was convinced the bulk of her confidence and essence lay in her appearance. And that girl was 22. Why at 38 years old, does society want and/or expect me to look like a 22 year old. And why, would l I acquiesce to such a ridiculous demand?
Like it or not- every extra dimple on my thigh, every extra pound on my belly, the scars, the laugh lines, the wrinkles, they’re mine. I’ve earned them-they are permanent records of the most joyous occasions, like birth of my kids, and others are a painful reminder of darker events. The scars which I cannot escape especially because they are indelibly etched on my face and in my heart.
So companies– can you PLEASE stop peddling me your fake -ass anti- cellulite, anti-wrinkle, magic bullet pills and shakes that promise to transform my 38-year old self into my 22-year-old one. Why? Because I don’t want your snakeskin oils and am proud to have earned every last one of my flaws. Oh and you couldn’t PAY me enough money to experience being 22 again; I’m happy just where I am.