I noticed an interesting mental shift recently. After we took these photos this past weekend I didn’t really like them. For the usual vain reasons we’ve all thought before (like my face was puffy from not enough water or sleep, the sweater looked too bulky to be tucked into this miniskirt). Too much, not enough. Blah, blah, blah.
But then it struck me that I was comparing how I looked in these photos to a better version of myself. One that was maybe younger. Or thinner. And that’s major. You know why?
Because it means I am no longer comparing myself to anyone else’s body. And I realize I really haven’t been in quite some time. I no longer feel anything when I scroll past the glamazons of Instagram. I don’t silently sulk ‘I wish I had her legs’ or cheekbones or arms. Somewhere around 30 I kind of stopped wishing for a mythical body that I wasn’t born into and hadn’t even realized the seismic shift of that.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Wishing for your own legs at 25 as opposed to a stranger’s is likely just as delusional. You can’t turn back time any more than you can teleport into someone else’s skin. And as someone who has ample photographic evidence of what she looked like in outfits at 26-32 thanks to this blog.. it’s an easy rabbit hole to dive down.
But – in general it’s nice to only be in competition with myself these days. It’s nice to think – I was so strong and fit then, I’d like to work towards that again. It’s also nice to look at a photo of myself at 28 and think – oh hey you looked pretty good – even though I can remember that I didn’t always feel that way then. Which helps remind me that I better embrace the look of 32 because at 38 I’ll wish for this. You see the trend?
Gravity waits for no woman. But if it’s kinder to the woman next door, that’s none of my concern anymore.
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