Much like 39

Last week I made the mistake of watching "What Not To Wear" over breakfast - the mistake being that they were doing over a 40 year old chick who owns her own business.  As I have a mere 2 days left of 39 and also own a business or two, that piqued my interest, so I settled in.

And the chick came out the other end stunning.

Which is something all us chicks secretly aspire to, whether we say so or not.

This week I went shopping for a little black dress.  Favourite Man has something special planned for my birthday which requires dressing up and going out on the town - two things we don't do very often, so much so that I actually haven't owned a dress or a skirt in 3 years or more.  I found my dress, but also realized that unless you have the WNTW team paying for your shopping spree, any physical upgrade doesn't come cheap.  It took me a day or two to get up the courage to pay for said LBD, although in the grand scheme of things it probably wasn't the most expensive item on the rack.  I then went shopping for appropriate heels and stuff - but simply couldn't get up the courage to pay for anything more that day, knowing that there are still practical things like groceries, fuel and business expenses to cover, as well as Xmas looming large.

Which brings me to a couple of dilemmas when it comes to my desire to be better at 40.

Firstly there's the whole ageing thing.  Changing room mirrors love to tell you how badly things are bumping, lumping, drooping or sagging - and my shopping expedition has shown me just how old I'm getting. 



Next there's cash.  If I'm ever to upgrade how I look it's going to cost me.  A lot.  And I'm not the type to throw money at frivolities if there's better places to invest it, with longer-term rewards (such as keeping us alive or growing the business).  As a quick indication of some basics:

• Underwear starts at over R100 for a basic bra and around the same for decent panties.  Head into WonderBra territory and we're hitting around R300.  For one item.
• Want a shirt?  Fork over R150+, even at the cheap shop.  Plain t-shirt?  Around R60 if you want something that won't wear out in a month.  And if you're investing in clothes, they really shouldn't wear out in a month, so you can't shop at the cheap shop.
• Jeans - unless you buy them at Pick 'n Pay (which I do, because they fit well and are comfortable and cost R110), you can expect upward of R300 at Woolies.
• Other pants - eish.  (Yet I hear jeans are not the thing for a 40 year old to be wearing, nor t-shirts so other pants must eventually be considered)
• Jackets, jerseys etc - eish again.  If you can find decent quality ones, you'll pay for them through the nose.
• Shoes.  Hmmm.. I must be one of the few women who don't have a shoe fetish, mostly because I baulk at paying over R200 for anything and tend to live in a single pair of takkies from the Chinese shop.  However, I do need shoes - and I have size 8 feet, which aren't easy to shop for.  When you do find something that fits, it's another few hundred bucks.  Get it in lasting leather, pay a whole lot more.

So now we're up to a grand or so for the basic pieces of cloth and plastic/leather.

Then there's the face.  I stopped in at Edgars to enquire about foundation, another thing I haven't had a drop of in years.  Found the right colour at the Clinique counter - the bill is R320.  "I'll be back" I say and exit rather quickly.  Head down to Clicks for the cheaper options like Revlon, but now I need "age defying" stuff because I'm not 20 anymore - another few hundred bucks, if you can find the right colour actually in stock, and someone willing to help confirm your choice.  For the rest of the things we plaster on, I can get by with cheap mascara from Rialo (R35), blusher from the same (R30), and lipgloss too (R25) - plus an assortment of eyeshadows and other things that have lasted me for years because they don't see much action.  As for moisturizer, it appears they're draining baby softness directly from babies to put in the bottles, and then flogging them on at an appropriate cost.  I don't even dare ask what those little vials of top beauty house liquid cost, as I'd prefer not to "fall flou" in the mall.

On to hair.  Mine is waist length mostly because I haven't had the time to see a hairdresser in ages.  Today it's time to find one, and hopefully get a decent cut out of it that will last a while - especially at the R200+ price tag.  Colour?  Hell no, out of my salary bracket.  Best I can do is perhaps a home kit that doesn't cost the earth - but that unfortunately also doesn't look too professional.  So my "highlights" are the grey streaks slowly taking over :-)  And the style?  Plaited.  Out of the way of drills, network cable and e-waste.  Would I like to have a sweep of silken glamour, artfully arranged?  Of course.  Who wouldn't.  And I hope to aspire to it one day, just not today.

Hair in other places?  Well some go for salon waxing and zapping with lasers - it lasts, but you do pay for the privalege.  Brow shaping, tweaking and dying/bleaching, same thing.  You must maar do what you can with a razor, a box of Mandys wax strips and a tube of Refatocil dye.  Which takes time and can hurt like the blazes.

Of course all this is a bit of a moot point.  As lovely as it would be to swan around in kitten heels, luxurious fabrics and actually look like a perfectly groomed small business owner, there's reality to think of.  Yes, I own the business, but I don't just meet & greet and sit in an office chair.  I'm required to climb into and onto client's roofs, pick up and transport excessively dirty and old electronics, and do all this driving a leaking 35 year old Land Rover that it would be best to be prepared to dive under at a moment's notice should something break.  Just this morning I was under it topping up the transfer box oil. 

Can you see me doing that in heels and business attire?  No, me neither.  Even something as simple as a coat of nailpolish goes terribly wrong a few hours later when I'm required to clean an item with acetone.  On any given day, I can go from admin to rooftops in one foul swoop - and have found that if I do make considerable effort to look good in the morning, those are the days I'll be required to do the dirtiest work.

I've come to the horrifying conclusion that, good intentions notwithstanding, 40 is unfortunately going to look much like 39 - except that now I have a pretty little black dress in my cupboard.

On Being 39

The days of being 38 are over - one year to go before the big Four-Oh...!

And as usually happens, instead of New Year's Resolutions, I find myself pondering some birthday-time ones.  It's a good time each year for me to evaluate where I'm at and where I want to be in the year ahead.

Like every set of resolutions, there are a few to do with how I look.  This time last year I was skinny - but unfortunately it was more necessity-starvation related than healthy-weightloss.  This year I've picked up a few kilos - again, not in a healthy way.  The year has worn me down to the point where meals are rushed and whatever's at hand, instead of well-planned, nutritious gatherings that feed both body and soul.  I've been working so hard that when it comes time to feed the hungry I wander around the kitchen wondering what to make next, completely uninspired and wishing that bloke on the Food channel would drop in to help out.  I'm constantly dehydrated - no time to drink water, or I simply forget.  All told, I'm not in the best health, and neither is my family.  Which is my fault, I'm the home-maker / cook / shopper.  In the year ahead I need to sort out our nutrition with a definite plan for each meal, well ahead of time.  It's the basis for our daily energy and thus our ability to generate cash-flow.  With all three of us working hard every day (and night), we have to have the right fuel for our bodies.  Whether they boys complain about seeing more green things on their plates or not :-)  Some of those green things I aim to grow right outside my front door, despite the fact that my entire yard is bricked up.

Basically - I / we need to eat better and sleep more.  In a nutshell.

Add in to the body image the fact that wrinkles are springing up more readily, with their accompanying grey hair.  I simply haven't had time to pamper my looks.  My daily attire consists of takkies, jeans and a t-shirt, which usually ends up quite dirty by lunchtime.  I haven't worn nail polish or perfume in months. I have a farmer's tan - the legs are snow white, the arms black-tanned. Make-up is something that's slapped on in the half-dark with the hope that it looks like I imagine it does instead of what I suspect the mirror will show me.  In the year ahead I want to feel like a chick again, and look like a chick again.  I'd love to own a skirt, something more than jeans to wear now and then.  I need to replace just about every bit of make-up in my collection.  This morning I've attended to a few facial matters - later this week I plan to attend to the flowing locks.  The boys gave me a Woolies voucher for my birthday - I'll be perusing their shelves for some chick stuff as soon as I have a few minutes to do so.  Later today I'm doing a clothing chuck-out: all the old crappy stuff needs to go to make room for what I really use and what isn't full of holes.

Beyond how I look and how I eat, there's how I feel.  The time has come to reclaim myself - lost in the melee of the daily grind.  I know deep inside who I am and what I'm capable of, but I've given a lot of this up, shut it quietly up, hid it away.  I've become meek and conforming instead of listening to my gut, standing up for what I know and using that inner strength that saw me through some tough times in the past.  Somehow I need to let that out - I know my work will be better for it.  I need to shut down the fear of being ridiculed or having my dreams/opinions squashed and just go for it.

Then there's my home.  I look around me and see barely-controlled chaos.  We're three people living in limited space with two businesses that share it in many ways.  Long working hours mean housework is fitted in when I can on the weekends, if we're not out on site or busy with other things.  Yes, a lot of my work is done from home - but it doesn't mean I have time while here to attend to my housewifely duties.  I still struggle balancing the home-maker with the cash-producer.  Yet my home NEEDS to be a haven, as practical as it is required to be too.  I've got big dreams to do so - I simply need to start working on them one at a time, and finishing them.  Unfortunately many of them take cash to accomplish, which is always in short supply as we need to plug it in elsewhere.  There are some big-budget items that need replacing in the next year:  the lounge suite, the TV, the fridge/freezer, the microwave, stuff in our bedrooms... I need to get our storage and organization under control.  We'll get there, will just take some careful budgeting.

My family could do with a few things too.  We all need new clothes.  New shoes.  New office chairs, new computers.

And that brings me to the next to-do for the year ahead.  It's been a very difficult year financially - next year has to be better.  There is much hope on the horizon, I simply need to find a way to bring it closer.  I admit I'm often frustrated that I seem to be treading water, waiting for things to happen.  This year I have to make them happen.  It is going to take some seriously hard work, that's a given.  There's no miracles, no lotto winnings to wait for.  Practically, you're only going to get as far as the effort you're willing and able to put in.  In the year ahead I have a goal to bring in a set amount each day - I have to now find a way to do just that.  It's probably going to require some "but first's".  Before I can do this, I have to do that etc.  It may also require buying another vehicle.  But I've been sitting down and plotting what it will take, and I think I can do it.  Deep breath...

Between all the work, I want to take regular time-outs.  Not only to sit still in quiet somewhere for a few minutes (I may have to create that space if I can't find it), but also to spend time on things that feed my soul.  I opened up my piano for the first time in months a few days ago - although my fingers can remember what to do, they're rusty.  I have projects and stuff to make that I want to get to.  One thing at a time.  I would love to write again - whether for mere pleasure or for profit (need to find the words somewhere in my head for that and get them out).  There are skills I want to develop, things I want to learn more about.  My boys need more time and attention from me without distraction.  Seperate from the daily slog, all these are stimulation for my brain and my heart.  I'll be better because of them, and so will those around me.

This is all really a list in progress.  It's a start, a direction pointer for the year ahead.  Things will go from there, growing organically as each day unfolds.

39 - seemed so old when I was a teen.  Not so old on this side of it.  And definitely not too old to have a fantastically successful year to come.

Use By

Age is a terrible thing.

Watching a documentary recently, it stated that women hit menopause between 45 and 50.  Suddenly struck me I'm turning 39 in less than 2 months, and that particular power-surge experience is looming!

Which is OK - it's still years off.  But I've noticed more and more daily signs of ageing, which are a lot harder to handle.

For one thing, I know I can't continue doing what I do day in and out forever.  Recycling e-waste requires a lot of strength (no problem), but it also requires dexterity of the hands.  Lately I've noticed increasing stiffness in my fingers - it's hard to make a fist, some fingers aren't as flexible as they used to be, I struggle with tools that used to be easy to hold and manipulate.  Fine work is hard to do - small screws don't come undone as easily.  You might say it's because the work's taking its toll on me: repeated injuries can't be doing me any good.  I may even have broken one of my fingers without realizing it a few months ago.  But I suspect it's merely "middle age" settling in.  Eish, that's a scary term when one still feels like a teenager.

The mirror is also talking about years - those lines, grey hairs (can't get away with calling them extra-blonde anymore), skin that won't bounce back, things that sag and all that stuff.  I'm getting old, dammit.

And have you ever noticed that, whereas you could easily shift a few kilos off here and there in your youth, the same amount of effort has no effect in your 30s?  Granted, I'm pretty proud that I have rock-hard abs somewhere underneath a little pillow-cushioning of middle, but they're not exactly eager to make their appearance to the general public.  Perhaps that's why you find the gyms full of cougar types, sweating it out for all they're worth?  It really DOES take that much effort to keep the wobbly bits in check.

Then there's eyesight.  I find myself adjusting the distance to read fine print or make out small parts until I can actually see what it is that needs seeing.  Sometimes that just isn't enough.  I have to hand it off to the younger generation to decipher.

Years ago 38 sounded so old - 39 even more so.  I'm certainly feeling it.  I may be well past my use-by date already.  With a son close to 18, I'm actually old enough to be a grand-mother...

Quite frankly, having to see me first thing in the morning, every morning, I wouldn't blame Favourite Man if he traded me in for a younger model! :-)

Only The Rich Die Young

'Tis true!

One needs only to hit the shops in search of a cream for the face to realise that fact. Have you seen what Olay costs these days..?

There's an ad on TV right now that has me slightly p'd off. Linda Evangelista (appropriately photoshopped / well lighted / Poly-Filled perhaps) has us try to guess her age, while extolling the virtues of L'Oreal something or other - and then states she's only 42.

OK, she's a supermodel. She's paid to look good. And I can guess a substantial portion of that pay has gone toward potions and lotions, professional attention and all that kind of thing. So yes, she can look marvellous at 42 while us 37 year olds look 50! :-)

The trouble actually starts early.

If you're not born with a silver spoon in your mouth or land a high-paying job right out of school, it's likely you started working life slaving away for minimal pay. If you also had a family young, your priorities are such that spare cash goes into their care, not yours.

So while the rich are out buying Clinique, you're out buying bread and milk. And perhaps trying to make Vaseline Body Lotion do the same job as the pricey face creams, rather unsuccessfully.

While they're out buying the kind of underwear that actually prevents your boobs hitting your waist, you're hoping your bra keeps from falling apart for one more year (forget Oprah and her wisdom re changing your size/fit every six months - simply not affordable).

While they're scrubbing away cellulite, getting deep-nourishing massages and sloughing off dead skin cells with salt from an exotic location, it's all you can do to make sure you get a shower in once a day and hope the excess baggage doesn't show up too much.

While they're coving up greys with an artful and professional tint/dye, you learn to brush the hair a different way so they don't show up too much - then watch as your blonde simply gets lighter and whiter with each passing month.

And when the rich die, they die young - looking fresh and lovely, perky and firm. While the rest of us will look like we were still working on our to-do list as they nailed our final resting place shut.

Make sense? You know it does! :-)

Best-By

I had to stop and think the other day. How old am I again? I thought I was 36, but it turns out I'm actually 37. Which, when you think about it, is pretty damn old.

I remember when my mom was 37, when my aunt was 37, when my best friend was 37 - and they seemed kinda middle-aged. Now it's my turn. And I've come to the horrifying realization that 37 is way past your best-by date.

You see chicks my age that look incredible - you see women twice my age who are equally impressive. (I comfort myself by knowing they've had years more than me to get like that!) But it seems as if I've never really had a "best at" age.

When I was in my teens I was a barefoot tomboy with scabs on my knees, then a newly-moved-to-South-Africa quiet and somewhat ill kid (the change from tropical to Cape Town, from bushveld lifestyle to Mowbray city living did strange things to my health). In high school I was never one of the beautiful in-crowd people. I was the arty-farty, poetry-writing slightly plump outsider with glasses, too shy to stand up and say a thing. In college I stayed at home - not in a dorm, so my social life wasn't what it could have been. I had enough issues figuring out who I was that I constantly felt awkward, and looked it too. From college it was straight into single-parenthood and a continuing slog to survive, no time or cash to really spend on me. And now I'm working so hard I barely have a moment to glance in the mirror to make sure there's no e-waste dirt on my face before I head out the front door. More often than not Favourite Man and The Kid are faced with an un-made-up face, hair pulled harshly back into a plait, torn jeans and a shirt made for grimy work.

It seems like I never got it right - like I never had the time to become the nubile teen, the hot college chick, the 20-something party animal, or at-her-prime 30-ish woman who could pull off what everyone else did.

And now I'm 37 - past my best-by date. It's harder to lose excess baggage on the thighs. The boobs will never again be perky. Greys are over-ruling blondes. Those laugh lines and worry lines are permanent fixtures.

It's easy at 37 to wonder if a tuck, a lift and a snip might help. Against plastic surgery my whole life, I'm suddenly pondering its merits. Perusing the hair-colour aisle. Eyeing designer lingerie (that lifts and supports), wondering if I can convince my feet to walk in high-heels more regularly - if I can find some that fit.

Who among us doesn't want to turn heads? To look stunning all the time? To wake up beautiful instead of bleary-eyed and crumpled? To feel gorgeous constantly and exude it like a spotlight?

Perhaps it's mass media dictating how we should look and be. Every day the internet throws gorgeous young things barely out of school onto my screen - long lean legs, flat stomach, firm butt and boobs you can crack a hard-boiled egg on. These are the "norm" - the thing the media tells us we should be, should spend our lives aspiring to. The faces that sell the anti-aging creams, the potions, the lotions and yes, the surgery. We see celebrities at their best on the red carpet, or the carefully photoshopped covers staring back from the Checkers aisle. Our own harried and careworn reflections look nothing like that.

Yet I know that the Inside Me has a beauty the outside can't portray - that the strength of this woman under the skin has been bought with a high price, been moulded and made through trial by fire. I have scars and stories and experience and a personality that may not always show - but they're there for the discovering if you look deep enough, if you're willing to ask and listen, if you have the patience to really hear.

And if I don't turn heads? If I'm truly past my best-by date? It's the real me that's going to last, although my nipples may eventually hit my knees.

That's what this 37-year-old needs drummed into her head when she next stands naked in front of the bathroom mirror and starts to get critical or discouraged.

Still there's a part of me that wonders if my best-by is still coming. If, perhaps, I can one day be a hot 70-year-old...

Another year older

Apparently it's my birthday. I've just turned 10! (well... 3 plus 7 equals 10, right?)

And I've also just had a "choir of angels" (aka an impressively large group of colleagues) drop by my desk to sing to me. I think they saw the tray of choc brownies waiting for 10:00 and are making sure they've got a foot in the door.. :-)

Favourite Man and the Kid made me stay up until midnight so I could see in the day with the prezzies they'd bought me. And very beautiful ones they were too. My men rock.

Big thanks to the many people who have emailed, SMSd, Facebooked and wished me a good one throughout cyberspace. It's turning out to be quite the day!

Battle for Youth

I popped in to a shop yesterday to get a sample of an Elizabeth Arden product that apparently does wonders for those of us in our mid-30s who are starting to notice the wrinkles more and more...

I used Clinique for years and was pretty happy with it. But I found as I hit 30 it no longer kept my skin as moisture-rich as needed, especially with the products I was using.

I've used the cheap and cheerful Tea Tree Oil stuff, I've dipped my fingers into the Olay pool, I've used whatever was lying around at the time, but it was time to try some of the high-end goodies. Just to see if they're as effective as they claim to be.

Well I know they work - my skin feels fantastic. But that may be offset by the snippet of info I picked up along with my samples. Namely, price.

You see, to invest in a tube of 3-in-one cleanser (and it is an investment), it would take R180. Which is reasonable as beauty treatment costs go - Clinique isn't too far behind. But the moisturizer.. sorry, "Serum" they gave me a few drops of... well that comes in at near TWO THOUSAND BUCKS a bottle! My few drops may well be worth near a hundred.

And here's where vanity vs practicality comes into play. Obviously I can't go plonking down two grand for something to smear on my face, even if it does last a year. But there are those who do - quite obviously, or Elizabeth wouldn't still be in business. So how far does one go to maintain a youthful glow? How much are you willing to fork out to keep age at bay - at least on the surface?

As much as I love how my skin feels this morning, I'm not sure I'm vain enough to hand over that much cash for a fountain of semi-youth. I'll just have to age gracefully on cheaper products instead.

Droop and Sag

It's a horrible shock when you look in the mirror properly for the first time in months .. and notice you're getting OLD. The kind of old that doesn't go away with a good night's rest or an extra lick of makeup.

It's the few extra wrinkles around your eyes.

The droop on bits affected by gravity.

The struggle to shift an extra kilogram and keep it off.

The greys overtaking blondes (and yes, I'm only 36, but they're all over the place!).

The realization that you've missed the deadline to be young and hot. (You were too busy with other things)

The overwhelming thought that you're turning into your mother - and it's not a good thing.

You find yourself paying more attention to ads for Olay, L'Oreal. You start to re-evaluate your stance on the evils of plastic surgery. You wonder if it's too late to aspire to MILF status, or if you should just start shopping for supportive tights and polyester tracksuits now already.

Of course, pulling an all-nighter doesn't help matters. It only adds to the eye-bags and general impression that you're a half-step from zombie mode. I can't believe I used to party all night and still get up for more.

I know I haven't been looking after myself well either. Not enough water, not enough fruit & veg, not enough rest, not enough exercise or fresh air. But yesterday it was a stunning day and I started to remember my life outdoors.. :-) Soaked up a bit of Vit D, breathed deeply, and pondered whether or not I'll actually get a tan this year.

This age thing... it's really nice to "mature", to know who you are and where you're headed, to have the confidence that comes with years.

It's a whole other matter to feel old though.

Enough

(this has been hanging around in Drafts for a while being tweaked / threatened with deletion ... I guess it's time it got up the courage to see daylight)

While doing a shop-dash one evening recently, I ran into someone I haven't seen in 3 years. Their first comment was "Wow, you're looking fantastic! You've lost so much weight". And I know I have - I've been told so by family members and friends, I can see it in the mirror. I can both feel and see bone and sinew on my arms and legs instead of merely padding. I can feel ribs, spine, shoulder blades and muscle. All my clothes are dropping off me - not one thing fits anymore.

Yet sometimes I don't feel like it's enough, like it will ever be enough, no matter how much thinner and firmer I get - and I do still have a ways to go.

I've had an interest in nude photography for ages, I love the form of the human body and the possibilities of what one can capture on film, so I tend to do a lot of scrolling through galleries like this and this (obviously NSFW) for inspiration - examining what others have done in the hope that perhaps one day I can achieve something spectacular from behind my lens (if I can find someone willing to strip of course!).

But there are days where I simply can't look at those female forms, where after scrolling through only a few I have to close the page and go away before I get horrifically sad - sometimes it's too late, and I already am. It hurts to look at them.

I'm past the use-by date for lithe, for young, for dewey-skinned. I will never be statuesque or long-legged, I'll never be fantastically voluptuous in all the right places. I'll never attain model-like beauty, nor be the one who turns heads in the street, the mind-boggling stunner who drives hormones through the roof - that's just a fact of life. I've reached the age where grey hair is overtaking the blonde, where gravity has control of anything not tied up permanently, where life has left it's indelible mark. Seeing perfection on a computer screen (no matter how photoshopped, no matter how young or well-lit) sometimes sends me into a spiral of discouragement.

It's worse on days where other worries weigh me down. Where I'm already fighting stress or fatigue. It becomes the one more straw that can make me feel completely defeated.

And yet Favourite Man tells me I'm beautiful - and hell, he's seen me at my worst, first thing in the morning, or covered in dirt and grime, or sick as a dog. Perhaps I do still have my redeeming factors, even if sometimes I simply can't see them. Or perhaps love truly is blind? :-)

I admit it - it's an ongoing battle for me to see my own lovliness in the face of these images, to acknowledge that perhaps I'm not haglike after all - even if I'm not Them. I've never considered myself as anything spectacular, and years of being dismissed as a second-class human (mere female in a male-dominated world...) have left their residue that I still find myself fighting now and then.

But I also know I'm getting there, bit by bit. Yes, I hit days where I compare myself to everything that pops up on the screen and come away lacking. There are days I just want to hide away and cry.

Yet there are other days where my confidence in who I am as a unique Woman, as ME (warts and all), kicks in and maybe, just maybe, that trumps a lack of outer perfection.

Beauty, after all, fades and sags eventually.

Lines

Over the weekend I discovered a song that includes these lyrics (which of course is now firmly stuck in my head - thanks to Limewire):

"All of these lines across my face,
tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been,
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true…I was made for you"

- The Story, Brandi Carlile

Was thinking about that on the way to work today. Driving a rather loud Landy means your radio is either your voice or whatever you have in your head, and this was it.

My dad has often stated that every grey hair on his head has someone's name on it. One could say the same thing about wrinkles - they don't appear spontaneously. Some folk spend their lives squinting into the sun and end up with "crow's feet" around their eyes. Others spend their lives smiling, and the lines on their face tell the story of joy. Being all of 35 years old, I'm at the stage where anti-wrinkle, anti-age cream ads start to get my attention.. and where looking in the mirror to find grey hairs and wrinkles could be quite frightening! Especially when one considers there are some women out there who are my age and look like they're 20.

But the lines on my face DO tell a story. There are laugh lines around my eyes, and squint lines because I don't usually wear my sunglasses (or have simply forgotten them in the Ford...) and spend a lot of time outdoors. There's the occasional tired look after a full day of working and momming. There's a slight worry line between my eyebrows thanks to dealing with K&D on a regular basis - though it could have been worse, and it doesn't often show.

Scars on my knees and hands tell of a fall on a tar road in Mutare when I was 6, a slip of a chisel when I was 11 (and attempting to carve soapstone), a burn from the oven while baking brownies 3 years ago. There are three scrapes healing up from Olivia work at the moment. There's a single stretch-mark on my stomach - proof that it expanded to child-bearing proportions once.

Each of these "imperfections" a story. Each one a comma in my life-book. Each contributing to who I am today and how I move in the world.

When I look at them I read those stories, acknowledge where I've come from and how far I'm yet to go. And realize that right now, right here, I'm more complex than I appear.

My Daily Guru message this morning had the following to say:

The face in the mirror

"Our inability to see beauty doesn’t suggest in the slightest that beauty is not there. Rather, it suggests that we are not looking carefully enough or with broad enough perspective to see the beauty."

-- Rabbi Harold Kushner

Who are you? You can gaze at your reflection in a mirror but you’re not likely to see your true likeness. You are beautiful, unique, perfect. Do you see that?

The world needs you to see how whole and complete you are -- now. Can you begin to own your divinity? The world needs you to know who you really are so you can be the mirror for others.

"The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing."

-- John Muir

Exactly.

Body matters

I don't think I know a single person who doesn't have some issue with how they look. From "too fat" to "too skinny", bulges in the wrong places, some things too small, some things too large, too hairy or not hairy enough, too tall, too short.... seems us humans can never really be satisfied. We certainly try though - just count how many image-adjusting place of business your neighbourhood sports - salons, hairdressers, gyms...

Having recently dropped a few sizes, I'm certainly liking what's in the mirror more than I was 3 months ago. Definitely happier with the shape I'm in (getting there at least). I think I'm at that age where I'm comfortable in my skin too. I know what wobbles and what doesn't, I've made peace with the fact that I'll never be anything other than me, and now I'm starting to enjoy who I am.

And yet...

Every now and then media makes it hard to be content. Look at enough nubile young types and you start realizing you may just fall under the "mature" category these days. Where they're perky, you're soft and rounded. Where they're firm, you're not so much. Where they have perfect skin, yours is getting wrinkles around the eyes when you smile - and there's a scattering of greys among the blondes. It's enough to make you want to wear bloomers to the beach and never allow more than a hint of skin to show. To anyone. Ever. Leave the dramatic removal of clothing items to the younger generation, and hide instead with bed covers up to your chin! :-) (of course, personality never seems to feature in these comparisons, does it!)

And yet... (again)

As woman, no longer little girl, no longer teen nor 20-something, I'm learning to embrace who I am now. To relish the fact that I know my rhythms, my facets, my mind. No longer flighty or unsure of myself (well, usually). I've come to the conclusion that being authentically Me is more important than being a perfect 10. Yes, I enjoy looking good - but I'm trying not to stress over the effects of maturing, nor the things I have little control over (like genetics).

There are times where I wonder how others see me, if I could ever measure up to those gorgeous things flaunting their assets. I admit it - sometimes I don't think I can compare, and should simply give up hoping I'll be good enough, attractive enough (clothed or unclothed). But I don't. Or I try not to too often.

It's a journey, this body image thing. Not always easy, but hey - this is me. Short of a lotto-winning's worth of surgery and some artificial boobs, take it or leave it.

Here comes another one...