Beauty

“You know the best part of having my kids move out?” She asked me over dinner. I was sitting across from a woman about my mom’s age at restaurant a few weeks ago. She was visiting and I had joined her and two other older women for dinner.

In my continuing attempt to convince myself I’m not aging, I tried to identify with her 18 year old daughter, and realized I was 18 nearly a decade ago. Ten years. Ten. But I comforted myself that I was still about 15 years younger than the woman across from me, and she was actually quite pretty. Happy, I decided. Confident and comfortable –her ease with herself extended across the table and made me relax as well.

“Walking around naked.” She responded to my inquisitive look.

“Oh.” I said, trying for a blank expression and obviously failing as she started to laugh.

“Sometimes,” she confessed amidst the giggles around the table – likely at my expense – “I jump when I pass by a mirror. Think ‘who let that old woman in the house?!’ and laugh when I realize it’s me. Then I keep cleaning or go back to watch TV or whatever.”

I smiled at her, but cocked my head. “You really walk around naked?”

“Yes! I come home and the clothes come off. I’d be naked all the time if I could.”

“Oh.” I said lightly.

“Don’t you do that?” She asked, and I quickly shook my head.

“Never.” I answered honestly.

And it’s true. Even at my thinnest – when I considered myself to be quite pretty – I wore clothes. All the time. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve been sans clothing anywhere in my house outside the bathrooms. I shower but as soon as I’m dry, I wiggle back into cotton knits or linen pants or cashmere sweaters. Comfortable clothes – soft in color and texture, fitted loosely, matched with frivolous heels or color-coordinated flip flops.

I was thinking about it today as I disrobed in a dimly lit room with New Age music. I’m strangely comfortable doing so. It took me some time to find my new therapist, but I like her a great deal. A sturdy woman, she’s quite maternal and performs massages that are therapeutic yet pleasant. Having left some sessions bruised and others with lingering muscle soreness that wasn’t eased out, I’ve found that balance is difficult to find. Since moving here, I’ve tried four different people before settling on my current masseuse.

Strange, I decided, sliding under the sheet face down. I took deep breaths and shifted to get comfortable, wincing at the pain radiating from my right shoulder. I sometimes put on clothes while I’m still damp from the shower. Yet I love massages. Look forward to them as soon as I make the appointment. I’m just more comfortable in daily activities – watching television, working, cleaning, reading blogs – if I’m in t-shirts and sleepy pants. Mostly gray. Sometimes with little bleach stains or small holes from years of loving use. That’s what I notice when I happen to walk by mirrors. Frayed hems or threads hanging from seams. If I'm at work, I tug at hems to make sure the material hangs correctly. Smooth wrinkles I missed when ironing. I've never found myself wishing I was nude.

I looked across the table at the woman again. Not overly pretty in the physical sense, but somehow beautiful. I wondered if I had some of that quality myself – if some people could translate some kindness or intelligence or dignity to beauty of some sort when talking to me. And if I decide that being attractive isn’t comprised completely of my physical appearance, why am I so concerned about how I look? Even how I look to myself while home alone?

“How long have you been married?” I asked her, trying to figure this out.

“25 years. I was just out of high school.” Her lips lifted in a smile that started out as fond then eased into slightly wicked. “He loves the way I am – the way I look and laugh and talk. We do everything together – we’re still so in love.”

The tension I’d felt in trying to determine why I didn’t feel beautiful eased. It’s hard to always remind yourself. I’m personally comforted and validated by the thoughts of those people I love. So my thought is that if I were married for that long – was safe and comfortable and confident in the love of some amazing man – that I’d be exquisite. Radiant with the knowledge that someone loved me – wanted to hear me laugh so much that he remembered funny stories from work. Would read me parts of books he liked so he could discuss them with me – eager to share his knowledge and learn my thoughts. He’d call my cell phone in the middle of a dinner with 3 other women just to check in because he missed me.

Self-confidence is difficult at times. I do relatively well for a while, then falter. Find myself looking around and hoping people don’t notice me, spend extra time with make-up trying to cover freckles that someone might find adorable. Long for winter and the ability to wear heavier fabrics and cover more skin.

It’s also dangerous to tie your self-worth to another person’s vision of you. He might go away or just not happen to be around during a weak moment. The beauty – the certainty that I’m lovely and worthwhile – has to come from me. I know that.

I just thought, looking across the table and she apologized for taking a call at dinner to tell her husband she loved him, that it’d be nice to have someone who thought I was gorgeous. It might not solve my problems, but my guess is that it would help a little. But until then - if it happens at all - I'll have to remember to tell myself a bit more often.