It’s real. It’s on. It’s happening.
Just like my mom. On the verge of 45.
Pretty sure I’m getting hot flashes, too.
To be honest, I’m surprised at how well I’m handling it.
I guess it’s because I haven’t really considered myself a young woman since my early thirties, anyway.
Also, I know I still look pretty young. My ladies at the salon couldn’t believe my age when I told them. “Oh my God, you look like a kid!”
That’s what my friend Jackson said, too, but that was in my mid-thirties. At the time I wasn’t sure if he was just being polite. I guess now I know.
I’m sorry, friends, I feel like I can’t tell you enough about my youthful looks, like I hammer it down your throats. I am incredibly boastful about this.
But it’s kinda all I’ve got, right now.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my haircut. It’s cute. She did a good job. All those ladies do. But I do think my bangs are too short, and that it would be a cuter haircut on me if I was thinner.
Is that horribly cruel and self-loathing? Do I sound just like my aunt after she’s had a few? Do you see how I can brag about and shame myself practically in the same breath?
It’s totally sick, I 100% recognize that.
This shit is hardwired into my brain. I know I can change it. Just…how? I want the answer, desperately.
I just don’t know what it is.
With what, exactly, do I replace all the nasty, mean self-talk? What precise words do I say to myself instead? And do I have to believe them right away?
I am a beautiful woman.
I am a beautiful person.
I am not the number on my scale.
I am not my waist circumference.
I am not my dress size.