I just recently celebrated my birthday. I also forgot how old I was turning. 32? 33? 40?
I don’t know what happened to my memory once I turned 30. It’s like I just stopped caring how old I was and sadly accepted the fact that I was slowly on my way to becoming an old person, which means dying. I mean I already wear fanny packs, hiking sandals and drink old man drinks. Oh and I love liver. Shit. Maybe I am an old person? I haven’t even lived that long, and yet my soul feels the weight of the world. I just want to stay at home with my husband and kiddos, watch Game of Thrones (only with the hubs, duh), binge on nature shows, play Xbox with the littles, and drink wine (sometimes whiskey).
I was just back from our fun annual girls Vegas trip with my BFF’s. If you know me, you will also know that I LOVE my Vegas. I love to dance. Given the right environment, I will dance all night long. I guess that’s my young me. I do feel young then.
Eat. Dance. Drink. Repeat.
Ahhh…..Vegas. A land of wonder and misery and disease.
*don’t touch anything on the Strip. Just don’t. Unless you want the bum bump.
Vegas is a play place for adults to escape the monotony of their day to day back at home. We get to play pretend and get dressed up and play a part of the Vegas show. Vegas is great at manipulating the titillating (ha, tit) adventures one can have when you partake of the show.
But this trip painted a different show. I came home with a different perspective. Maybe it was the beginning of my old lady life, but I was over the idea of “playing a part”. I had planned for weeks what to wear, how I wanted to look, and what war paint I was going to plaster on my face to fit in. I even wore fake lashes, which I never do. I remember the moment I put them on, I felt odd. I didn’t like it. Like I was trying to be someone else. While they looked great and made my eyes look beautiful, it just wasn’t me. I didn’t understand how me piling the mass amounts of mascara versus me putting on a pair of lashes made me feel so different. It’s the look I was trying to achieve with mascara, but easier. I came home and realized that while I am OK with the idea of makeup, I am also slowly started to hate the “feeling” that I need to wear it.
My husband has pointed out my “small” addiction to buying makeup has increased since I followed Instagram make-up gurus. He was right. (Just don’t tell him that shit.) I had been brainwashed into thinking I needed these products to pile on my face so I could be beautiful like them. He would point out that he hated how much I had on my face and try to wipe it off, while telling me I had a beautiful face and I didn’t need all this. He reminded me when I never wore as much and he thought I was beautiful then, so why would it change when I had more?
“It’s gross when girls cake on their face”- Dan.
I love that man. Bluntness and all.
I sit here typing this post with a messy bun, no makeup and my Teva sandals on and I feel like ME. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still most likely going to wear makeup. I am trying to work on wearing less. I like to have eyebrows to help me forget that tweezers and the 90’s were a bad idea. I’m slowly working on embracing loving my face and ME for who I really am. I don’t want to play a part, I just want to be me. I want to feel beautiful because I’m ME.
The struggle is real though. We live in a very looks obsessed society. Everything on us can be enhanced, fixed, added, or removed. When did we lose the faith in ourselves and who we are as people, that we based our acceptance on looks? Of course we are immediate to judge on looks, but hell, looks are so deceiving. I know some damn attractive people who are assholes. I also know people who aren’t classified as “hot” but their personality makes them so sexy and attractive. I don’t want to be judged by how I look, and I think we need to stop judging others on this idea. Many people are looking at the covers of the book, but they ain’t taking the damn time to read em.
So, if any of you reading feel the same, you’re not alone. Maybe you don’t feel old like I do, but you are tired of playing a part. It’s time we get on with our bad selves and be real. Real beauty is from within. Don’t believe all the bullshit the word is trying to tell us. Don’t be “pretty” with an ugly soul. You actually just end up being ugly all around. Promise. I believe if we actually took the time to enhance, fix, add and remove the good and bad things of our personality, we would truly feel beautiful. My face will eventually catch up to my soul age and all I will have then in the end is my soul. The only real thing we should be judged for.
*here’s a pic of me, being me.