For the last several years I have adamantly avoided having my photograph taken. It's my face that gets in my own way. When I stand in the mirror and examine it as objectively as I'm able, I think it's a fine one. I have two eyes, a nose that is in proportion, a mouth that works and lips that some would describe as rich. Kissable, I think. But then my eyes focus on this white space -- too much skin surrounding the island of working parts. It slowly happened about eight years ago. As I hit the upper range of age 30, my body rebelled. It started spreading in places that had previously been stable. My face was always normal and my cheekbones were nicely defined. My waist was narrow, my belly under control. My thighs and bottom have always been problematic.
It's my face that is most bothersome to me. It's like it has spread out and become almost alien and if that's not bad enough by neck and chin have followed suit. Then when I look at a photograph someone has surreptitiously snapped of me, I glance at this person and wonder "Who is she?" Is this a problem that lurks on the minds of most middle-aged women hurtling toward 50?
Now I am quite aware that if I lost 20 more pounds, the land mass around my features would diminish and believe me I'm working on it, albeit slowly. It's hard to look in the mirror and see face that is resembling a blend of my parents staring back at me. This aging process is one that takes some time getting used to I suppose. I don't feel much different than I did 20 years ago. In fact, I feel better and more energetic almost buoyant. But it's the face that is signaling me that time is marching on and I'm not too far from reaching that half century mark.
So here's to losing 20 more pounds and reminding myself that my face is beautiful no matter how far into the universe it may spread.
