I Love Every Last Square Inch of My Cellulite
My body isn’t perfect. I have plenty of flaws. And you know what? I LOVE them. So there!
-Melissa Chapman, www.marriedmysugardaddy.com
All right, I admit it: I have cellulite. That dreaded dimpling on the backs of my thighs and derriere? I’ve got it. Is it a feature that I’m particularly proud of? Would I, say, wear a thong bikini to the beach? Hell no! But it’s not because I’m ashamed of my body; in fact, quite the contrary. I love my body. I feel grateful when I wake up every morning and I can get out of my bed, unassisted, and simply walk to the bathroom. I can see, I can touch, and I can be independent
I may be starting to sound a bit preachy, but really: How often do you honestly reflect on the gifts your body gives you, and the miracle that it simply works? And while I’d love this body which houses my soul to be a perfect 7 (lord knows at 4’ 11″, there is no way I could ever conceive of it being a 10), I’m not going to starve myself to get there. I’m just not willing to walk around feeling angry and bitchy all day long because I’m hungry.
Of course, when my ten-year-old gets nostalgic, starts flipping through old photo albums and remarks, completely innocently, “Wow, mommy, you used to be SO SKINNY”—and repeats it five times in a row!—sure, it makes me ponder my thinner days.
But when I look at those pictures, I remember a girl who was convinced that the bulk of her confidence and essence laid in her appearance. And that girl was 22. Why, at 38 years old, does society want or expect me to look like a 22 year old? And why would l I acquiesce to such a ridiculous demand?
Like it or not, every extra dimple on my thigh, every extra pound on my belly, the scars, the laugh lines, the wrinkles—they’re mine. I’ve earned them. Some of them are permanent records of my most joyous occasions, like birth of my kids; others, meanwhile, are a painful reminder of darker events, scars which I cannot forget because they are indelibly etched on my face and in my heart. And nor would I want to forget them.
So, beauty companies? Can you please stop peddling me your fake-ass anti-cellulite, anti-wrinkle pills and shakes that promise to transform my 38-year old self into my 22-year-old one? I don’t want your snakeskin oils, because I am proud to have earned every last one of my flaws.
Oh, and just for the record, you couldn’t pay me enough money to experience being 22 again. I’m happy just where I am.
Melissa Chapman blogs about her marriage and everything in between at http://www.marriedmysugardaddy.com/. Her work has appeared in The Staten Island Advance, Care.com, ABC News, BlogHer, Baby Center, Momtourage, Lifetime Moms, Babble, The Washington Post, Time Out NY Kids and iVillage.
Read all of her BettyConfidential columns here.