The stretch marks I adore, I wouldn’t try to remove them for anything in the world.
The legs that splay apart as if they still know what it feels like to have a weight pushing upon them. The thinnest ankles holding so much weight, much too much weight.
Breasts that are brazen now, not as shy as they once were, but still concealed and firmly kept in place with the all amazing Fayreform. Lopsided and confused for life, hopefully Rumi will bring back the balance. For now, I look at them in the mirror and wish they were smaller and even.
A tummy that can blow up like a balloon after too much of the wrong thing. But will often stay resting, gently tucked in as if all is well for now. The layers of handle, never sure as to when to leave, remain. They are not from Aru. Well some are. But the most are from long before. I’ve never come to terms with them. We’ve been frenemies from the day they began to appear.
Perhaps anytime now, I’ll learn to look at them with love, rather than with irritation.
I read this now and I realise.
If I had a firm stomach and balanced breasts, I would be 14 again.
And I don’t want to be 14 again, not for any amount of money in the world.
I love that I know myself better now.
Know that I can depart from moments I don’t need to put up with.
Know that I have found love and it is rare.
Know that there is a little boy in my life who loves me with the sweetest of souls.
I also realise.
I am not other women.
They are not me.
We all have things the other wants.
Money. Bodies. Body bits. Talent. Eyes. Eyelashes even. Love. Sweet love.
The trick seems to be.
To be happy with our lot.
Perhaps that is the hardest skill of all.