I like my Stretch Marks

It's funny how our body image changes as we get older.

Or maybe I'm just too tired to care anymore.

But the older I get, the more I appreciate the way people are put together through their stories and struggles and not their matching scarf and Tom's set. There are times when I look at a 20-year old in all her perkiness and find myself glancing jealously in the mirror. I scroll over the stretch marks laying over every patch of skin that makes me uniquely female. I also find that I no longer where spandex because it keeps me from chaffing, but rather it holds the jiggling down to a minimum. Thank you spandex.

But I feel like as my age increases, so does my freedom in what my body looks like.

I have successfully sequestered my first grey hair and the rest of my follicles have thrown their hands up in  color-defeat. They are ushering me slowly into a lonely grey tundra. But I think I'm ok with that. There is a certain freedom that comes when you stop concerning yourself so much with what physical image you are projecting. It's allowed me to laugh more at myself. It's allowed me to enjoy my husband as he dips his goatee into the salt and pepper pool. It's given me more mental space to play "T-Rex devours Spiderman" with my boys.

I wish I could have discovered this a good 20 years ago. The bang poof, shoulder pads, and endless jelly bracelets were all aching so loudly at me that I didn't enjoy what was right in front of me: others.