No, I haven’t been on the scale.
No, I haven’t been to the gym. Lingering cough that makes people move away from me or threaten to haul me to a doctor. And I’ve been working my butt off (I wish literally, but hey).
I have blonde hair, blue eyes and great legs (I speak the truth. Not a brag. The rest of me can look like a sack of fertilizer with potatoes in it, but the legs are always good).
I’ve been taking supplements (maca root, biotin and prenatal vitamins) to thicken my hair and strengthen my nails. I use Revitalash to lengthen and thicken my eyelashes and it’s working. I’m using Aveda Invati shampoo, conditioner and scalp serum for my hair. It’s working (my hair stylist told me so and she IS truthful. And highly skilled).
I got the hair cut and colored yesterday (and I pay top dollar for it. Worth every cent). The nails are manicured (the feet pedicured) and I have new clothes, including my very first ever LITTLE BLACK DRESS.
Okay, it’s not so little (XL) and I’ll need torso Spanx, but you get the point.
I am told that I have good skin (it’s called “No sun, no smokes, plenty of water, limit alcohol and eat your veggies”).
This may make me sound high maintenance, but I’m the one who pays for it and gets it done, so I’m not a burden. I earn a good living and don’t expect someone to support me.
So why don’t I feel like an attractive, vibrant woman, which according to all of the above, I am?
The guys my age (which is 51. Why lie? There is a birth certificate out there. I am 2 months and 3 days older than the President) want the 25 year old arm candy. I DID once date a guy who had voted for Roosevelt (Teddy). He would have preferred the chippy in her twenties, too.
When my hair color (they call it a “weave” out here in Cali. As I have African American friends, this caused me some confusion. Regionalisms) was complete yesterday, I loved the color, but saw a tired, middle-aged, worn face beneath it. And fat. I think I could be 98 lbs. and still see myself as fat.
I work hard at it, but I do not feel beautiful and do not really believe anyone who tells me I am (and it’s always women). Those who do are generally the lovely, generous souls who see all people as beautiful.
I have only been asked out on two dates: one guy turned out to be a perv and the other, I never heard from again. Not exactly the kind of thing that boosts one’s self-esteem or confidence.
It’s like the sum of the parts don’t equal the whole. I pay attention to my grooming, dressing, health. Doesn’t matter: no man (not a member of the Sapphic Sisterhood) has liked it well enough to put a ring on it. Or even ask it on a date.