The Poodle Reels In The Years

I grew up accustomed to compliments, because I seemed to have it all going for me in the looks department once I got past that awkward stage and a lot of bad hair cuts at around thirteen years old. I was petite, yet voluptuous, reminiscent of Betty Boop, with a face that always looked younger, and naturally curly hair that I hated but everyone seemed to envy.

Never full of myself, I was blessed with that "she don't know she's beautiful" attitude because I have a very vain mother whose happiness centers around who she is with and how she looks. Having rolled my eyes at that for years, those things never felt important to me, and my happiness came from within. I sought out those that felt the same way in relationships. My boyfriends were never terribly good looking but they were nice people, and though I am happily married to a guy that is actually the whole package now, those exes remain platonic friends to this day. Not many people can say that.

Because I am an approachable individual, people, whether they be friends or family, have always shared their hang ups with me, discussing their issues with me thoroughly. Chunky thighs, c-section scars, stretch marks, limp hair, small eyes, you name it, I've heard the laments, even though many of these people are attractive both inside and out, and have had pretty decent luck with the opposite (or same) sex. My advice to them was always focused on working on perceived flaws if possible, reminding them too, that people don't focus in on the small flaws, but rather, they look at the whole person. If you're fat and don't like it, eat less and work out. If you think that he won't like you because you have a c-section scar, then you have no reason to be with him because he is shallow... that sort of thing.

Never did I think that I would start to worry about my own self.

I turned thirty last November, and with that birthday came about ten pounds, three gray hairs, and a horse kick to the thigh that could have broken my femur, but instead left me with a hoof print of spidery, busted veins. Gone is the youthful look in my eyes, disappeared not by wrinkles, but by maturity, and though I still get carded for cigarettes, when I look in the mirror I see a face that has been marked in subtle ways by cynicism, hard work, and the pains of growing up.

I stopped wearing bikinis, though I am told that I still look good in one. I tried to cover that hoof print on my thigh, though it generally goes unnoticed unless I point it out. Those three gray hairs cost seventy dollars to hide when I went and had my hair professionally done. I can't cry in a closet with a towel under the door normally, but when my size three jeans wouldn't button, I sobbed as though my best friend had died.

Worse yet, I began to turn the lights off during sex, which came as a surprise to a man I have been with since the age of eighteen. I did not want to be seen. I wouldn't go outside to check the mail unless I had make up on.

I was hardly aware of this stuff as it was happening. I just slowly started to act in this manner, and none of it hit me until I went out to California to visit my parents.

There I was, driving through the San Gabriel Valley, listening to a sudden spurt of great tunes on my favorite station, KROQ - The Cure, The Clash, The Pixies, and Cracker, when the DJ thanked all of Southern California for listening to "Flashback Lunch". FLASHBACK?! I knew all of those songs. They couldn't possibly be oldies!!! After all, those songs were popular when I was in high school, which was only yester...fifteen years ago. My entire being deflated, and all those things I had been doing since the big 3-0, all those things that were happening to me, rushed to the forefront of my mind, mocking me, holding out a walker and bottles of Geritol and ginko bilboa.

I pulled over on a San Dimas street whose name is unimportant, seriously thinking I would have a minor breakdown. Then, like some sort of epiphany, it all hit me. All the advice I had given others was suddenly applied to myself, and all of my silliness over this aging thing seemed to melt away.

I was still pretty, though I could not consider myself a girl anymore, but rather, a woman, which was a word I had never applied to myself before that moment. Those few extra pounds could be worked off, and if they weren't, it did not mean that I was fat or unattractive. Besides, fat doesn't mean ugly by any stretch of the imagination.

Gray hair can be covered up, and just because it was there, hidden or not, did not mean that I was old. Some people go gray way earlier, and still others let the gray come in and still look great.

As for those spidery veins, they were not what defined my legs. My legs work and I am thankful to have them, they aren't a bad set of gams to look at, and probably look better now that they aren't stuck in that waifish era that dictated people should look as though they were on black tar heroine.

Furthermore, being thirty meant that I was at the height of my prime. I was sexually experienced now, less inhibited, and my husband loves my naked body, so insisting on total darkness was a slap in the face to all that knowledge and experience.

In moments, my self esteem was restored.

I share this because I think that we all go through it. Too many people are out there trying to live up to this unrealistic ideal. Here I was, a person who others admire in the looks department, struggling with hang ups that had little bearing on anyone other than myself. If anything would make me old and ugly, it was that worry.

I admire the three hundred pound woman that goes out in a bikini and doesn't care what she looks like. I admire the ugly guy that charms his way into womens' beds because he is confident that he can. The 50+ people that dress young no matter how ridiculous it seems to others get my nod as well, because these are the people that are truly beautiful. They love who they are, and when they do so, others love them too.

Likewise, I cannot criticize the woman with the boob job or the man with the hair plugs. As long as they do not measure their worth by these things, why shouldn't they achieve a look that makes them feel sexy? I'll keep covering the gray, and just because I love myself doesn't mean that I will stop pampering myself or looking my best. It's about doing it for the right reasons, and not because you are going through a panic attack over it.

We spend a lot of time worrying about the perception of others. Sometimes, those things can overwhelm. Change what you don't like, but don't obssess over it. If you are happy with your looks, then relish in them, because not everyone is going to like or dislike them.

Finally, keep in mind that if you aren't aging, you're dead.

As I started up the car again, this time, singing along to the newer song that played on KROQ, I felt a surge of joy, shedding the inhibitions and worry that had begun to creep up on me, and I began to live again.