The Standard

I pulled a white hair out today

And now it’s gone, it couldn’t stay

Looking close, what did I find?

Some observations​, they weren’t kind:

My moustache darkly growing in

A new hair sprouting from my chin

Wrinkles sag around my lips

When I pretend to make a kiss

Against the mirror I scrutinize

The baggage underneath my eyes

Yellow teeth and crooked smile

My bangs are surely out of style

My eyebrows wild, it isn’t couth

Behold!  But here’s a novel truth:  

That beauty can’t define us all

Unless we let it – it’s your call

Fuck the shows, the magazines

Society’s standards are ugly and mean

Cut your hair or let it grow

Do what you want – and let that show!

Our beauty comes from deep within

It’s time to change, it’s sink or swim

Beauty is what we make it to be

All parts of us, you all and me

Your children think you’re beautiful

Enlighten them, be dutiful

Impress on them to just be kind

Not to be passive or outshined

Just be the best that they can be

We’ll all feel better, judgment free 

(I wrote this after my first attempt at cutting my own bangs.  Shout out to this helpful tutorial, even though I felt bad about myself afterwards.)

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Just wondering…

If technology is so advanced, why has no one developed a filter to make it look like I actually got enough sleep last night?

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Uncomfortable

On Saturday I found myself crying in a fitting room at JC Penny’s while shopping with my mother; she had  coerced forced encouraged me to try on some work clothes as part of my birthday present, despite my polite but vehement protests over the last few weeks.

After a few minutes she brought more items, trying to be helpful, and I snapped at her.  Seeing the look of hurt and confusion on her face, I immediately told her I liked the top she picked out but it was too big, and unflattering. That I was frustrated because nothing I tried on looked decent.  My body, bigger, squishier and even more strangely shaped than before I was pregnant, just didn’t look good. As my mom went off to get me a different sized top I really gave myself a look over – something that hadn’t really happened since BB was born, since I was able to successfully avoid clothes shopping – and I made a gruesome discovery:

Everyone who had told me how “great” I looked since the baby was born was lying to me. Like, to my face.

My unwashed hair was thrown up quickly into a messy bun, that I initially thought had looked okay when I left the house.  My makeup, put on during the car ride to the mall, definitely did not come close to masking my blemishes and dark circles. I saw my stretch marks, those brightly colored highways that really made their presence known when they started to go down South the last two months of my pregnancy, under fluorescent lights for the first time.  That, coupled with the chipped off purple nail polish on my painfully un-manicured feet, the fact that I only owned one pair of (maternity) jeans that fit me, and the ugly truth that I will have to eventually go back to work hit me all at once; all I could do was let a few tears fall out.

Uncomfortable

On Saturday I found myself crying in a fitting room at JC Penny’s while shopping with my mother; she had  coerced forced encouraged me to try on some work clothes as part of my birthday present, despite my polite but vehement protests over the last few weeks.  After a few minutes she brought more items, trying to be helpful; when this happened a few minutes later I snapped at her.  Seeing the look of hurt and confusion on her face, I immediately told her I liked the top she picked out but it was too big, and unflattering. That I was frustrated because nothing I tried on looked flattering. As my mom went off to get me a different sized top I really gave myself a good look over – something that hadn’t really happened since BB was born, since I was able to successfully avoid clothes shopping – and I made a gruesome discovery:

Everyone who had told me how “great” I looked since the baby was born was lying to me. Like, to my face.

My unwashed hair was thrown up quickly into a messy bun, that I initially thought had looked okay when I left the house.  My makeup, put on during the car ride to the mall, definitely did not come close to masking my blemishes and dark circles. I saw my stretch marks, those brightly colored highways that really made their presence known when they started to go down South the last two months of my pregnancy, under fluorescent lights for the first time.  That, coupled with the chipped off purple nail polish on my painfully un-manicured feet, the fact that I only owned one pair of (maternity) jeans that fit me, and the ugly truth that I will have to eventually go back to work hit me all at once; all I could do was let a few tears fall out.

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