Beauty, more than skin deep.
I know that we should focus on healthy, but what about happy?
I have girlfriends who push their bodies to the limit, marathon runners, extreme fitness hardbodies and Zumba queens. I tell myself that one day, another day, when the load lightens, always an excuse .. even I recognise it for what it is. #procrastination. Silly, when the stress of some of these days could do with a little tire swinging, sledgehammering or general butt-kicking. Maybe target practice, have a feeling with the ‘right motivation’ I would hit it between the eyes every time. But really I should be doing this for me, certainly not getting any younger and I know my body would thank me for a little self-care, and after all, I am my harshest critic. (for the most part)
So I was sitting on the beach writing this while wearing my Mom style full piece swimsuit, and a little down from me was a young girl in her micro bikini. At her current angle, I could probably have counted her ribs. Her face was worshiping the sun, a box of cigarettes at her side and I wondered about going over and mentioning that she’d be sorry at 40 when she looked a little too well lived in. I figured that was her Mother’s job and decided to let it go.
On my left was another bikini-clad babe. Whereas I had decided that I’d be bikini worthy after a dozen rounds with a personal trainer, this bathing beauty was a work of art. Like 18th century Botticelli kind of art. I watched her, because I am a huge people watcher and also, I am nosy. She moisturised her skin, softly massaged her arms. She caressed her calves and gently tugged on her suit to cover a little more of her glistening skin. She reached into her mass of auburn curls, pulled a few pins and shook her hair til it coiled thickly down her shoulders. She deftly twisted it up, loose tendrils spilling about her face.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away, drawn to her ease, her comfort in her sensuality. I realised as I watched her that I felt envy. I was envious of her confidence. I was envious of her absolute comfort in her skin.
For a moment I thought back to a concert I had recently attended with young girls everywhere in little bandanas – not worn on their heads or tied around their necks. No, worn as teeny tops paired with shorts borrowed from Barbie’s closet. Not one of them showing much confidence as they eyed each other up, taking stock, making comparisons – a far cry from the natural serenity I was nonchalantly eye stalking.
She suddenly stood up and began to undulate towards the ocean. I watched two older men a little further down from us as they surreptitiously stole glances over their newspapers. They too were watching her approach the water’s edge. They too were admiring her.
Her full figure, her oiled tanned olive skin, her obvious joy as her fingers trailed through the gentle waves breaking around her.
She was all woman.
So what holds us back?