Growing up I often wished I was smarter, prettier, richer, more popular – you name it! I looked at others and saw them as more – and myself as less than. I don’t know why. It certainly wasn’t because my parents didn’t love me or support me. I know, for a fact, that they thought I was smart and pretty and that I was “all that and a bag of chips.”  I figured they were supposed to think that simply because they were my parents. So, who knows? Perhaps the answer to my poor self-image could be uncovered through some lengthy and very expensive psychoanalysis. But, at this point in my life, it really doesn’t matter. That’s just how it was. Somehow, over the years, I got over it and learned to like myself. I accepted the fact there would always be someone smarter, prettier, better in some way – and that was okay. I don’t know how that happened. Maybe I just grew into my own skin. Or maybe I just grew up. And I don’t know exactly when I came to this point – perhaps it happened so slowly and over so many years that I just didn’t notice. Like time passing without being aware of it, one day I looked around and realized that I liked who I was. I was a little surprised by the realization and thoroughly happy.

Even so, this “liking” myself didn’t actually extend to my physical self. Rather, I had come to like the person I was inside, which was certainly a different and pleasing perspective. So, I ignored the me that peered at myself in the mirror assessing my face, hair and body. That ME was extremely critical. I found all sorts of things wrong with that ME – my face, my hair, and my body. My complexion was wrong, my face wrinkled, my hair was frizzy, and I was fat.

Today all those assessments are still true and I acknowledge them as such. However, I have decided that I’m okay with those facts. And what’s more, I no longer wish them to be different. My complexion is a matter of genetics – and since I’m perfectly content with my heritage I’ve decided to accept the ruddy complexion of my mama’s family. I’m never going to be tall like my daddy’s sisters. I got the short gene from my mama’s side and I’m taller than any of them so I’ll just be glad about that. As for my wrinkles, they are the flag ship of my years on this earth and I am grateful for every single one. My frizzy curls are my reminder that in life we are in control of nothing – not one single thing – least of all my hair. Nowadays when I see my frizz and curls in the mirror I just chuckle and love them anyway. I wear them as my crowning glory of wisdom. I spent so many years trying to manage and change the hairs on my head. It was exhausting, and fairly useless. I am wise enough to know that now. I have chosen to go with the flow (or frizz). My time is more well spent these days and much less stressful. And as for my extra pounds? Well, just know that every single ounce has been a decadent pleasure put there by my husband’s seductive cream sauces, waffles and maple syrup with my grandson, Wilbur’s chocolates from my granddaughter, my sister-in-law’s chocolate chess pies, my son-in-law’s crepes, my daughter-in-law’s penchant for butter, all the dreamy pasta I could eat in Italy, my friend Jeanette’s key lime pie, my friend Phyllis’ fudge, my friend Beverly’s pound cake, my friend Judy’s inclination to cook all sorts of deliciousness when she visits, and my own proclivity for milk (warmed and with cardamom) and ice cream (which includes gelato) of any flavor. So, there’s that. And I have decided to like every single thing about ME because it’s all I’ve got for right now. Besides, this body – whatever it looks like – is only a costume that covers the consciousness of the real me – but that’s another discussion for another time. Namaste.