Surrounded by images of artificial perfection, it can be tough to be wholly comfortable in one's own skin. I have a box full of hair rollers and a drawer brimming with makeup that attest to my desire to be pretty-perfect. Or at least, socially acceptable.
I find that the older I get, the more tolerant I am of imperfections as they emerge: a streak of grey hair, little bit of droopiness at the corners of my eyes, a softer middle. I work out, slather on anti-aging creams and worship at the altar of Miss Clairol every six weeks. But these are things that feel routine, now. Not some terrible indictment of the fact that I'm getting older and less attractive. It just, well, happens to everyone. If we're lucky.
I don't do all the primping that I did in my twenties. I feel perfectly okay with leaving the house with just lipstick and my hair pinned up. I don't feel the need to own an eyelash curler, any longer. I can't remember the last time I worried about whether I looked hot. Looking appropriate while heading out to work or a workshop, sure. But...I no longer obsess about perfect.
I've come to see imperfection is a constant part of life, in all aspects of it. This is my skin, and I'm mostly okay with it. Sure, I have bad days. But, for the most part, I am okay with what I am. Mostly because I'm loved, and that makes me feel a bit more like I can love myself.
In the spirit of imperfection, here's a photo of me taken at the local zoo on a rainy day a few weeks ago. No makeup, hair pulled back. I looked very imperfect that day. But I had a wonderful time cooing at the animals. I was happy. And I think it shows.
