Can you Love Yourself, Wobbly Bits and All?
- May 22, 2017
It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul. I love, love, love that saying. I do not love, love, love my eyes though. Well, that’s not strictly true, it’s all the loose, baggy, wrinkly skin around my eyes that I dislike so much. How the hell did I get to look so old all of a sudden? I hate it so much, that the only photos I feel happy looking at or posting on social media, are the ones in which I’m wearing a massive pair of shades. I guess that makes me sound really vain and really shallow, and I suppose it is, but we all have our crosses to bear!
I have a few issues. I grew up as a pale, skinny, freckly child, and up until I was 7 or 8 I had short hair (thank you, Mother. I am scarred). I would often be mistaken for a boy which probably wasn’t helped by the fact that the 1970’s was quite possibly the worst decade EVER in terms of fashion. ‘Gender neutral’ is probably the best way to describe the majority of my wardrobe, and in particular I remember a blue trouser and jumper set. With pandas on. Yes, pandas. How I hated those bloody pandas! So you get the gist? Basically I was the ugly kid. My best friend through school was a tiny doll of a girl, with a pretty face and ribboned ringlet hair, which made my boyish ugliness all the more evident. As if Mother Nature wasn’t having the most colossally hysterical laugh at my expense already as she continually jabbed me with her ugly stick, she dealt me one last cruel and shitty hand when I was 14. My hair began turning grey. Thankfully my mum always let me colour it to disguise the ever multiplying pube like strands that seemed to be appearing daily (if you’re my generation, you’ll remember Toners and Shaders, right?) and my ‘friends’ were always on hand to pluck out any strays that I’d missed.
By some humongous miracle, bitchface Mother Nature must have moved on to some other poor unsuspecting sap, because at around the age of 17, I’d got make up ‘down’, discovered fake tan, was a lovely size 10 and stood at a hair’s breadth short of 5’10”. Finally boys seemed to like me. Not just like me, but like me! My late teens were a whirlwind of partying, dating and all round fun.
Cue Bitchface. Again. She must have lost her ugly stick, or maybe traded it in, because this time she decided to afflict me with fatness. 2 kids in fairly quick succession (coupled with copious amounts of chocolate) had completely screwed my metabolism or something, because before I knew it, I was a size 16/18. I remember catching my reflection as I walked past shop windows and thinking that I’d have to stop in a moment to let my mammoth rear end catch up. Ever since then I’ve done the yo-yo diet. I’m fat, I’m thin, I’m fat, I’m thin. At the moment I’m fat, but working really hard on being thin.
I do ask myself one question regularly though: Will being thin bring me happiness?
Just how do you define happy? My partner, Mr Sunshine, always tells me that I’m a glass half empty kinda girl (thankfully his is not just half full, but positively brimming over), so perhaps no matter what I look like, I’ll never be happy with myself? Perhaps I just need to learn to embrace my wobbly bits? Perhaps I’ll be all Bridget Jones and accept that yes, I’ll always be just a little bit fat. After all, Kim Kardashian has an arse the size of a small country, and she’s happy as Larry with it!
I think I just need to stop giving myself a hard time. I am, ahem, 45 for heaven’s sake! So maybe I’ll stop being so unrealistic about getting to a size 12 again by the time I go on holiday, and that no matter what size I am, without the intervention of a Harley Street surgeon, my boobs will continue their journey south. Maybe I’ll accept that the lines on my face are not so much a sign of age, but one of experience. After all, I have already embraced my now platinum (God I love that word. I’m really not up for old lady grey) hair, even though most people think I’m a bottle blonde! (OK, a little confession. Once every few months I dye a few strands in my fringe and temples that refuse to go grey gracefully. That’ll be bloody Bitchface again!) And I am really going to try hard not to be so paranoid about my peepers.
People who know me well, know that I adore my friends and family, and that I like nothing more than the social side of life. I love being surrounded by vibrant, happy people as they have such a cathartic effect on me, and don’t they say that laughter is the best medicine?
So here goes.
My name is Jane. I don’t have wrinkles. I have laughter lines.