Dear 20-Year-Old Self, You Should Have Enjoyed Your Perky Boobs

I have a 20-year-old son who is off to college.  Somehow, the math doesn't add up, because it was just yesterday when I met my 20-year-old boyfriend who became my husband.  I still feel like a 20-year-old on some days, but the crow's feet decorating my eyes reminds me of the big 5-0 birthday coming up in two years.

Not long ago, my teenagers were sifting through some old pictures of me in high school and college.  "Wow, Mom, you were skinny back then," one of them remarked.

Ouch.

Ouch.

Did I mention, ouch?

When I look at the pictures, I see myself through my kids' eyes.  Damn, I really was thin back then--except my memories swirl around the thought of being fat.  I was a chunky kid growing up and I never really shed that image.  I didn't appreciate my body throughout high school and college. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the kid who was teased on the playground and on the bus.  The one who was never good enough because there was always some flaw to pick over.  The arched eyebrows. The wide feet.  The man arms.

Today, at the age of 48, I'm trying hard to love all of me, including everything I see in the mirror. It's a tough battle, because there are a thousand more flaws to deal with today--thanks to three pregnancies and the railroad tracks left behind.  It's  never-ending battle to hide the gray roots every few weeks. I am so not ready to go au natural--something which should happen a couple decades in the future, not now.  The bunion sprouting out of my right foot has made the hunt for double-wide shoes into triple-wide.

And the boobs, good gosh... the boobs require a super-heavy duty underwire to keep gravity from swinging them near the knees.

So I have some advice for all you twenty-year-olds out there: this is as perky as your boobs are ever going to get.

Enjoy them while you can.

 

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