From the age of about 10, I have been able to catalogue every fault that has appeared on my body. I know the location of each misplaced freckle, bulge of skin, and stretch mark. I know that my legs are too short, my waist is too long, my arms lacking in definition.
My belly is something that has not been seen in polite company for 14 years and will likely never see the light of day again. And like the craters of the moon, I have named my most distasteful wrinkles and each nasty inche of cellulite.
Here is the Sea of Fattitude, there is the Double Chin of Doom….
I cover my face in makeup every day. Yes it is a mask and, yes, it hides my vulnerabilities. It also feeds my vanity and like a good suit of armour, it gives me a false sense of security. A sharp sword wielded by a women’s magazine or red carpet event on TV and I am laid out again, reminded that I do not measure up and, as middle age makes its inevitable advance, never will again.
Despite my physical faults, like all humans, I crave intimacy – true intimacy. Not sex, although that is certainly a fine thing to crave and has it’s place in the world of human interaction.
What I crave is acceptance and a level of trust that proves that despite all of my many faults, I am still perfect, I am still worthy, I am still desirable.
I want to be wanted, cellulite and all.