I Am Finally Happy With My Imperfections

I stood in front of the mirror in studied concentration. I saw my dark brown hair with red specks dribbled throughout the strands and how it twirls like a ballerina performing her penultimate solo, full of grace and sophistication. I saw my brown eyes that are surrounded by long lashes that aren’t dressed with chemicals, but surrounded by the artificial light that parades in the crevices in the dressing room stall.

My nose wasn’t too wide, it didn’t stick out, and my lips were proportional to my facial features. I followed my body down it’s short frame and saw my average sized breasts, my pear shaped figure that went in at the waist. My hips jutted out, but not too much, just enough to give the appearance of a normal body shape. I saw everything normal in the mirror, and I was once again confronted with a recurring thought:

What is wrong with me?

See, I didn’t see anything wrong with me, a development that took most of the last 10 years to rectify. I saw a relatively attractive 23 year old that (finally) had the confidence to look at her body, weigh herself, and to wear a bikini, all at a slightly fuller frame. But, I had trouble getting the attention of males, specifically any of them. As a 23 year old who has only been on three dates, and has had zero relationships, I had to speculate that there was something ultimately wrong with the way I looked. My friends got hit on all the time. Maybe they saw what the 13 year old me saw, and the image that I had tried so desperately to rid myself of.

But then I was struck by another thought: maybe it’s my personality. But I shrugged that one off quickly. I’m delightful. I have a quick witted sense of humor, find the weirdest things funny, and I’m fairly kind. Oh, and humble, very humble. But that’s besides the point. I actually super love my personality and most of the people around me love it, too. I didn’t actually worry that it was my personality that pushed the menfolk away from me. So, what was it?

Maybe it’s body language, a lack of true confidence, or my natural inclination to blame society for the fact that finding love is harder for the fuller bodied ladies in the world, but to be honest, I don’t know. What I do know is that beyond the fact that I stay home most days with my cats, and bond fairly decently with my blankets, it’s ultimately out of my control.

Most of our lives are spent in a battle to regain control over every little moment, and it’s a battle that I’m calling a cease fire on. I’m tired of living my life on the couch sad that the boy I saw at the supermarket didn’t fall in love with me. Instead, I’m ready to enjoy my avocados. I’m ready to enjoy me. I think I’ve finally learned the lesson in my sadness: love doesn’t equal happiness, it spurs from it.