Movie stars, family members and even society tell women to be comfortable in your skin, but they forgot to send the memo to my eye balls. You see, it seems that every time they take a gander at the image in the mirror they send a distress call to my mind that ask for an immediate issue of a “vacate the premises order”.
As I shake my head and my eyes fill with salty water that want to streak the round cheeks on my face, I can’t help but wonder what happen? How did I get to the point in my development that I became the most curvaceous thing in my house? And I say thing because there is nothing else round in my house, but according to some clothing websites I’m rectangle.
Rectangle? Really, another flippin shape, wonderful! As more thoughts fill my mind, I can’t tear my eyes away from the mirror that is taunting me with every menacing reflection of the dimple here and the dent there. I mean really, how many dents and dimples does a person need? I’m a work of art, sculpted even, but it looks like the creator isn’t finished. But yet, I stand there and gather my physical appearance so I can say “I’m comfortable in my skin” and leave the bathroom.
As my day progresses and it just happens to be approaching the weekend I’m invited to various parties and gatherings. I’m elated that people think enough of me to want me around, I mean why wouldn’t they because I’m great to be around. But in the back of my mind, the brain is saying to decline, decline now and spare myself the aggravation. Make up some story about a prior engagement, sick kid at home or something, and as I fix my full lips to utter the words I realized I dodged the bullet last time and this time I have to go.
Back to shaking my head.
Pretty soon my head is going to fall off because I keep shaking it all the time. The reason I should/need/want to decline is because now I gotta find something to wear on this masterpiece of unfinished sculpture.
Work day over and off to the house to plan my wardrobe for the start of the festivities for the weekend. But first, pit stop V-line to the Wii to dance some pounds (preferably inches) away. After 30 minutes of Twist and Shout and my sad interpretation of Michael Jackson moves, I hit the shower, avoiding the onlooker that looks like me.
I’m good and ready to put on that stunna top with the sexy jeans that have been in the closet since I bought them. “Hold it…..Hold it”, turning blue trying to button the damn jeans, so how sexy is that? Next move, peel them off and put on a body foundation garment. Okay now the hunt is on for the only item guaranteed to get my round bodacious curvy buttocks in them jeans.
“Gotcha!” Mission accomplished, after painting on the famously infamous body shaper I feel like Mike Tyson on those jeans. I’m the conqueror! Got them on and buttoned. Got the shirt on and laced and then I head to the mirror. I take a gander in the mirror and DAMN! What was once bodacious and curvy is now a solid mass of square. I mean, I know I’m a rectangle with dents and dimples but really, in 3D?
Well too late to fix it, this is going to have to do and I’m going to have to be “comfortable in my skin” yet once again. I love me really I do, but at times the reflection reminds me of the insecurities that caused me to become the specimen I am. All the rejections and comparisons, all the you’re great but you can always be better, have caused me to become a walking food taster. I see it, I gotta taste it, and don’t smell really good.
Alright never mind, makeup on, killer shoes and accessories checked. Out the door I head for an evening of phony smiles and cordial hellos.
At the lounge swiveling in my chair taking in the scene on the dance floor sipping on my moscato, the inviters come over to say hello and say how nice I look. I sheepishly say thank you, and make up an excuse for my otherwise out of character attire, “Yea girl, I clean up well, don’t I?” Although I really don’t care about the answer I do want the crowd’s verbal confirmation of approval of my comment.
Talk about contradiction. Shaking.
As I sit and ponder on the exchange, I really want confirmation from a man to say how nice I look. It’s almost as if, it’s not real until HE says it. But as I sit and wait and my yearning to hear a voice deeper than mine play tag with my esteem I really do wonder to myself, am I really comfortable with the skin I’m in or am I wishing the skin was thicker so I wouldn’t care if the compliments are fake or not?