Love, Jimmie

There is a number by which I define myself. It isn’t a pretty number. There is no symmetry to it, nor does it have any symbolic meaning.  It does have power, though.  Every time I step on the scale, the number that I read determines the type of day I am going to have.  Not only does it make or break my day, it also is the number I use to set my value.  I allow that number to dictate every part of my life.  I think my friends will like me better the smaller that number is.  I will bring more value to the company for which I work if that number never reaches certain digits.  I become less worthy every time that number rises. 

There is a second number by which I define myself.  This one is much smaller yet again, there is no beauty or symmetry or meaning in that number.  It does have power, though.  I look at the tag in the back of my jeans to determine if I will have a date in the near future.   I look at that tag to get a read on how people feel about me.  That tag can make or break a smile in an instant.  That tag is hated or loved based on what it says, and in turn, when I hate the tag, I’m not overly fond of myself.  When I love the tag, suddenly I am beautiful and confident and worth something.

Often, I am surprised when I am invited out by friends and the reason is that they just want the pleasure of my company.  It catches me off guard nearly every time.  It’s like perma-surprise.  I offer to bring cookies or a blanket or something, and marvel when they say, “No, just you.  We like you.” 

I look in the mirror to fix my eyes and my hair.  I check to make sure that everything is where is supposed to be.  Then I spend some time wishing my skin weren’t so pink and that my eyes were only one color.  I lament my nose and the imperfections that arrive on my face with every year that passes.  I see the weight I carry and wish it would visit other areas of my body.  I wish it would stop loving me so much and just go away already.  I see tall, taller than the average woman, and alone in my bathroom I am okay.  But stand me next to a petite woman and suddenly I am Amazon. 

Why am I so focused on myself anyway?  The measure of my heart cannot be found in a number.  Neither can my kindness or my intelligence or my affection or my talent.  Why is it that I struggle to see myself outside of the measure of a scale? Why can I not just be who I am without the angst of wanting less of me or a prettier me or a different me than me? 

I’m working on that.  I’ve been working on that for a while now.  A good friend of mine and I were talking about resolutions.  It was months ago so please understand this is not prompted by a need to fill space around the holiday or beat the subject of New Year’s Resolutions to death.  Anyway, she said that a few years ago she decided to make no more resolutions but that she would simply live a life she believed in. A life she believed in.  Instantly I was captivated.  What did I believe in?  How could I live my life that way?

I made a list.  My list is not complete, I don’t think, but I have a good idea of what motivates me and what I want out of this life. The piece of that I’ll share with you today is this:  I believe that I am beautiful.  I believe that beauty is determined by many things outside of perfect skin and excellent measurements and bleached teeth and I believe that I possess those beautiful qualities.  I measure myself by my heart and my Spirit and my love, not by my numbers.  This is probably the biggest struggle of my life yet I will conquer it.  I am conquering it.  I have conquered it.

I am beautiful, and that is enough for today.