I stare in the mirror at a naked me. I look down and realize I haven’t seen my vagina without staring at it in a mirror or tugging my protruding belly upward and inward since my early adult years. It has been, literally, years and my gut also serves as a reminder to get a tummy tuck or a fat removal procedure of some sort, someday. I continue to try several weight loss schemes, only losing but quickly gaining my forty-four pounds back every time. I notice that each time during the gain, fat builds in different places than it had ever before. This time, my face remains slender and my cheekbones are still visible. But, I’m two hundred pounds, yet again. That’s a far fetch from the 118 pounds in that picture framed. The back reads, “12th-grade project on the beach.” That black and white picture is one of my favorites. On the beach, I was care-free and skinny.
Beyond my protruding belly, I glance at my knees. Scarred and discolored, they cue memories of falls, mama coddling me at my every whimper during each incident of clumsiness, and the time I took out the trash containing piercing glass, unbeknownst to me. Blood gushed down below my knee and onward to my toes. I had two deep gashes and instead of Band-Aids, mama used gauzes and her nursing tape that day. I used to tear tiny strips of that tape and pretend they were my nail extensions. I would later study nail technology. Didn’t do much with that certificate, though.
My, the self-proclaimed manicurist’s hands are bone-dry, slightly pale compared to the natural golden brown they should be. My nails are fragile with overgrown cuticles. Each nail is uniquely shaped, some round and others squared, and my nail beds are completely flat, plain, and unpainted. Though my hands are averagely sized, my wrists are the same size they were in middle school, six inches around, slightly smaller than most women I know. My feet are still the same size, too, ugly as ever, even after a pedicure. I hate my feet and always have because I know that they could never look like the model’s feet featured in one of those magazines advertising the newest nail strengthening and super shiny lacquer that lasts more than 3 weeks. Even if I spend $8 on the polish and another $30 for one to paint the polish on, my feet will never look as appealing. I pretend to love them after each pedicure, though. I’ve just never been able to grasp the idea of fallen arches or the reasoning for my index toe being slightly longer than my big one. I always question, why me? Why, my feet? Why couldn’t I be blessed with normal feet and toes with my big toe being the longest and the others descending at a perfect 45-degree angle like most? The aesthetics of my feet feels like a curse more than genetics or what the bible says that I am, fearfully and wonderfully made. Fearfully, my feet, yes. Wonderfully, my feet, not so much. The corns on my fourth and little piggy toes became calloused from the cheaply made plastic shoes I swore I wouldn’t wear, again. But, they’re the only ones that matched my African garb at the time, and on that day, I needed those shoes more than my toes needed me. With my fit and flared custom-sized dress, adorned with African colors of turquoise and golden swirls, I had to make a fashion statement and worry about toes later. Two corns and a callous later, I really vow never to wear those toe crushers again. My fourth toes on both feet are the real burden bearers as my middle toes lay directly on top of them, causing my nails to grow curved. I cringe. My feet need a miracle.
I continue to stare in the mirror at a naked me. My breasts have lowered at least an inch or two, and the stretch marks have increased greatly since last year. After my weight loss, I noticed the droopiness and that my cup size reduced. My smooth areolas are still as big as ever. I secretly resent them because over time, they’ve made me feel less than a woman as my nipples rarely poke out or harden.
I look myself in the eyes. Skin tags line the left side of my neck and my diminishing brows need an arch. My skin’s texture is mostly smooth with a few bumps or acne spots, here and there. Stress has aged me quite a bit. My facial markings and lines are those of grief, anguish, and fake smiles. Others from loud laughter, expressions of pure joy, or my incessant resting bitch face.
Most days being aware of my greatest imperfections, I still think I’m beautiful, perfectly imperfectly becoming the woman I long to be. One who is madly in love with her greatest flaws. One who’s deserving of the love she so freely gives and at best actually believes it. A woman of substance. A woman with a sincere heart. A woman full of passion. A woman full of life. A woman that’s simply beautiful. I stared in the mirror at an imperfect, naked me and mustered up a smile. I am perfectly me.