Random Post About Beauty

I couldn’t think of anything to write about today so I googled “Random Blog Posts” and one blogger had a list of thirty topics.


Biggest regret

Favorite cosmetics

Surprise information about me

Something about a time when I feel beautiful

I don’t feel beautiful.  Now, all you delightful and dear readers, please do not think the following:

  1.  That I am looking for reassurance
  2. That I am looking for a pity party

I don’t need a pity party…although today during lunch we discussed the construction of an awkward cake.  Long story that I really can’t remember, but I’m bound and determined to figure out to make an awkward cake.  And an awkward cake would be a delightful dessert on a pity party menu.

I know what beauty looks like.  I have seen enough paintings, enough photographs, enough beautiful individuals to know the contours of beauty.  And beautiful I am not.

I am comfortable, for the most part, with my looks.  I have a nice smile, dimples which people consider adorable (not the best thing to hear when I’m nearing forty-four).  I have thick hair, clear skin.  I have good assets in terms of features.

I don’t have a vestigial eye, nostrils that flare outwards, skin that looks like a topographical map.

I’m pretty average, though.  Which is fine, because, per one of my students, “[I] have [my] man” and I can be ugly now.  She was a delightful source of diplomacy.

Every now and then, though, I burst out of my average shell, feel that one fleeting moment when I might actually be…pretty.

When I walk down the hall and inspiration hits and I can’t help myself because my “cup runneth over” and I tilt my head back and stare at the passing lights as I walk beneath them and just…grin, exulting in my secret joy.

When I am alone and playing music and just relax as the music sweeps around me like a diaphanous presence, pulling at me away from my comfort zone and into a world where chubbiness and awkwardness and klutziness do not exist and I am willowy and young and tall and able to dance through the intricacies of life.  In reality, my plies are squats, my pirouettes are fumbling turns.  But when I’m alone and not worrying about my lack of ability or how others see me, I can do this…..I can dance.

I am beautiful in my reading glasses and in front of my computer when my fingers skim across the keyboard in a randomly choreographed dance.  I am beautiful when my emotions are an exoskeleton riding out of my fingertips and onto a digital page.

I am beautiful when I stretch out my hands and see the bones in my wrists which are the only part of me that are actually small and lithe and possibly feminine.

I am beautiful when I shove my hands into the soil and turn over the seasons and breathe life into the earth.  I am beautiful when my fingernails are caked with dirt and the lines in my hands stand out in sharp relief against the dusty darkness.

I generally don’t worry about my loveliness.  I don’t worry about how well I fit into a society that values tall, skinny women with soft pliant skin and hair filled with chemicals.  I am five foot four; I am much heavier than is healthy.  My skin is dry and has a tendency to be so flaky I leave a trail of white powder.  And despite my hair’s great body (the only time when I might be described as having a great body), the weight pulls my hair down into a rather thick helmet.

I know my physical differences from what a lovely or beautiful woman should be.  And, in the end, the only thing I would like to change is my weight.  Which has been something I have wanted to change for years and year and years.  Decades.

Enough of that, though.

Every now and then, I slip past what I see what might be my categorized as my deficiencies and just see me.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.

And the insecurities and the self-judgment and the exhausting analysis of what I don’t have and how I should be slips off my shoulders and….what’s left is just bone and tissue and muscle and blood and…me.

This is when I stop looking for what I need to do and what I could have done and simply smile.

At me, at my silvery reflection, at the person within who isn’t worrying about everything that I am supposed to be doing.

And that is truly when I am beautiful.

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