Beauty Is

Sometimes I write to share my point of view. Others I post to share lessons learned. Still others are to explore a struggle.

I’m not totally sure which reason fits this post, probably a bit of all three.

Tonight unfolded like most Fridays. I walk in the door and my husband has 80% of dinner finished.

• We kiss, and I put away my lunch bag, purse, jacket.
• Off come the shoes, off comes the work clothes.
• I put on something comfy-cozy (tonight that ensemble included fluffy purple socks), then back to the kitchen to see how I could help.

He said what he says most often to that question: “Just sit down, relax, and look pretty.”

I said, as I usually do, something disparaging. Tonight it was “If I knew that would be my assignment I’d have kept my work clothes on.” Sometimes I tell him “two out of three isn’t bad.” Other times I ask him for an easy assignment. Rarely do I believe that what he asks is a possible task. Bless the man; he keeps trying.

I am keenly aware of the approaching milestone birthday, even if it is a few years away. Part of my mind circles back to it every so many days, prodding it like a tongue searching for a bad tooth: it hurts but I can’t just leave it alone. Although my inner person feels at least 30 years younger than the calendar tells me I am, I know the change is coming.

As I get ready each day, I steal glances at myself in the mirror. I am careful to stand just close enough to see me, and yet still far enough for my wobbly nearsighted-farsightedness to make up its mind and bring me into focus. I check for the lines around my eyes: are they there?

My neck!

(A moment: My poor neck. The only advantage I had by being overweight was that the skin on my chins was taut. True, it was filled with fat. But it WAS taut. OK. It was swollen and big. OK? But neck minus fat equals crepe-y skins and I carefully step too close to the mirror so it blurs just a little. Less weight is worth it, I repeat to myself firmly. And try one more day to believe I am telling myself the truth.)

My clothes fit well enough that I sometimes feel fashionable when dressed. I have jewelry and makeup to use. I am clean. But do I feel my own beauty? Am I confident of that? On most days: no.

Some of that disbelief I suspect is the awareness of age. Some of it might be the wearing away of emotional armor I’ve worn for years. Some of it might be… might be what?

Maybe a reluctance to see that what I see is as good as it ever is going to get? Maybe I’m trying to get the spirit inside me to match the observable outside of me. Maybe I’m teetering into balance, my yin and yang are working their way to harmony. Maybe I’m a work in progress?

Maybe that’s, ultimately, what we all are?

So I’ll keep trying to help my husband Fridays at dinner by sitting at the table and looking pretty. I’ll ask him to talk about his day, about the weekend plans. I’ll let myself feel how blessed we are to be together.

Sometimes I look up and see him just staring at me. “What? What is it?” “Nothing,“ he says, “ I just like looking at you.” And he smiles.

Sometimes, those times, I feel beautiful. And even if I don’t, I always feel loved.

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