As I’ve aged I’ve become more body conscious but I realised yesterday that this is ridiculous. When you waggle your boobs at your other half to divert the conversation away from how much you spent at the shops, he doesn’t see a well-padded middle aged woman with a cuddly tummy and a few too many chin hairs. He just sees boobs. I don’t even know why I bother arguing with him. I have everything I need to stop him dead right here on my chest. Like a couple of big magic bullets.
When I think back, there have been times when my legs were hairier than Mr V’s and I suspect he was just thankful they’d gone past the prickly stage. Relieved I was no longer sandpapering the skin off him every time my legs crept over to his side of the bed in search of warmth.
There is absolutely no point in worrying about my body when I’m married to a man who brushes his teeth every morning but would never notice that the bathroom sink could do with a good clean.
So I am embracing my wobbly bits. Empowering myself to accept me as I am (okay maybe a few pounds lighter – the coat that fitted me before Christmas is straining a little at the seams. The poppers popped when I was at work today. I speed walked to the car park, hood up and only the top popper done up at my neck, looking like an 8 year old playing Superman in the playground).
The only person that notices or cares about my imperfections is me. And to be honest the same holds true for Mr V – I am sure there must be bits of him that are imperfect but I’ve no idea what they are. Although I do sometimes get slightly freaked out that I’m snogging a 53 year old 😉