I think I’ve always been prone to an over awareness and self absorption regarding my appearance, but recently it’s become all consuming. Maybe it’s easy and daily access to unrealistic images? Maybe it’s my post-motherhood body? Or post-tumor physical and emotional adjustments? Or maybe it’s just that I long too hard for my 20ish year old bod (…what I fantasize it as anyway. I still thought I was fat then. Gigantic eye roll.) Nonetheless, whatever it is, I’ve landed myself in a real unhealthy pit of despair and self loathing.

I’ve felt such a pressure build up recently, but I’m a stuffer, not a feeler. I can’t let myself go. So I do weird things like stand in the rain and eat cheesesticks to cope. Despite my best efforts (see Cameron Diaz trying to cry in The Holiday) I haven’t had the pleasure of a good cry in a long time. I took a chance on a new movie tonight, with the hopes of tears. It seemed promising. But it failed me. So at 11:30pm, I felt reckless and popped in my sure fire sob fest go to. Ps. I love you.

Instant success. I cried like 23 times. And it’d been so long since I watched it, I didn’t actually remember that Jerry died of a brain tumor. Maybe it’s reaching.. but how weird to be a 20-something watching a movie of a guy that dies of a brain tumor and having no idea one was growing in your brain at the time. Wow, right? Life is so crazy and so unpredictable. And now I’m way off topic, kinda—Anyways, a line from my least favorite character in the movie stopped me in my tracks tonight.

“We’re so arrogant, aren’t we? So afraid of age, we do everything we can to prevent it. We don’t realize what a privilege it is to grow old with someone.”

I think this ALL the time. How stupid for me to wish I looked like that girl on Instagram? How messed up that I honestly believe my inner turmoil would disappear with a smaller waist line or less stretch marks? If I died today, only ate brussel sprouts and passed on an ice cream cone, I’d be so mad. Seriously, though.

The thought of standing in front of a holy God at heaven’s gates and having to account for every minute I spent wasted on obsessing over my self image makes me want to vomit. All. Over. The. Place. I get so down on myself when I see grey hair or another sunspot on my face. So afraid of age, we don’t realize what a privilege it is to grow old.

This day is a privilege. All of it. Caring about what I look like, as much as I do, is stupid. All of it.

People won’t be discussing my pant size when I’m on my death bed. And I won’t be bumping into people in heaven who are saying to me, “Oh I saw you from up here… you kept your cover up on at the beach because you didn’t want people to think you were fat.” It’s absurd that I stray so far from accurate perspective. Ridiculous. Someone. Please. Make it stop.

It’s meaningless. A chasing after the wind. And frankly, I’m exhausted by it all.

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