Isn’t it great when you can zip up a hot dress in your thin size? Isn’t it ace when your legs look toned? Fun when the tummy seems flatter? A blast when pores look smaller, hair looks thicker, lips look fuller, cheekbones look sharper, eyelashes look longer, cuticles look neater? All marvellous and thrilling and yet. And yet.
I’ll take well. Well is just fine. Not well as in ‘You look well’ for which read fat. Not well as in tanned. Just well as in healthy and happy. Well as in head and heart and body.
Maybe I am entering that time in my life when I am – most of the time – content with looking nice. Not the thinnest and the peachiest but nice enough to feel able to be myself which is a bigger ask than dropping a stupid half a stone.
The thing is, today, I’m not dying. I can tie my own shoelaces. I can get up off the sofa with little more than a muted ‘oof’. I can no longer care about what I’m wearing to something next week. I’ll decide on the night. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t have time to think about it. It’ll be fine. I can pull something out of the bag because I vaguely know what I’m doing.
Actively repellent things like wiry chin hairs and funny (not ha ha) facial splodges (warts? Shh), those need dealing with. This is not an earnest lecture about how looks don’t matter. It’s just that a venn diagram has appeared in my life: where pretty meets healthy’n’happy = winning. And that’s a new thing.