Hope's Guide to Beautiful Eyes; keep 'em clean and see the good in others. See the world with a good dose of optimism and a shade of realism.
I would much rather look into the bare, honest eyes of a kind, caring human than the long-lashed, colorfully lidded, wing tipped eyes of a model worrying about her eyeliner smudging.
Why can't eyes full of life and emotion be more beautiful than the painted ones?
But on the other hand, I know how much better I feel when I look in the mirror and see the highlighted curves of my face and the brighter glint in my eye from the subtle effect of makeup. So I understand the usefulness of makeup. I just wish it wasn't such a crutch.
I think I would've been happier if that HG article had simply been titled "Guide to Beautiful Lashes" rather than eyes. I have never worn falsies, doubt I'll ever get to that stage, and I won't really miss it! My eyes can be just as beautiful without it, thank you very much.
And I doubt the author meant it like that.
Backpedaling story time! I had a rough, rough night last night. We were in bed by 9 o'clock but I didn't actually lay down to finally fall asleep until around 11:30. What was I doing those two and a half hours, you ask? Well without going into too much embarrassing detail, I was on a hormonal rampage throughout our small apartment, crying hot, fat tears and using styrofoam packing pieces to placate my need to dropkick a small baby.
I was basically a rage-monster frothing at the mouth for no other reason than my eye felt like it had something in it while I was trying to sleep and I felt fat.
I tried multiple times to just get over it and go to sleep but the rage would boil over as the bedsheets were too hot, my eye was too irritated, the pillow to lumpy, and my husband too peaceful. Not his fault of course, I was lucid enough to understand that so I'd slip off the bed one more time and go break some more styrofoam and scream into a goose-feather down comforter.
It wasn't comforting.
The current state of my uterus didn't help at all, and probably led the rebellion in my emotions but I was really miserable last night, guys. Naturally, "miserable" in the shallow sense of the word in that my life is basically perfect and my misery was founded in vanity.
Nontheless! I was miserable.
Satan was pulling a fast one on my self-esteem and it wasn't pretty. (ba-dum-tss)
I wash my face every night. I don't wear hardly that much makeup anyway, but I wash it every night and use the Arbonne acne treatment, as well as using a St. Ives exfoliating scrub every time I wash my hair in the shower (which is every few days). I drink three full red solo cups of water every day at work and then some back at home. I hardly ever drink soda and our meals have gotten drastically better. I sleep a lot.
My face still looks like this...
I blame Chrissy for my bravery in posting this photo. (Sorry to direct more traffic to your post deary, but you are just so inspiring. The back a yo head is ridickalous, Sparkle. Own dat ponytail, work dat updo!)
I have never had acne issues this bad in my life...until I got married. Oh, the irony. Granted, I'd much rather deal with it now that he's stuck with me forever rather than attempting to date with that glorious array of gross adorning my face but still.
I'm leaning towards thinking that it's hormonal imbalance that's causing the issue and should probably go see a doctor about it but I'm terrible at scheduling appointments and considering things serious enough for medical intervention.
Regardless, I'm not a fan of what's happening to my face.
So I washed up my face last night to reveal that pictured above, and in case it wasn't painfully obvious enough, my hair has been acting like it's in the throes of the terrible two's and never cooperates. I think I need to get it styled. The cut it's currently in is just NOT working.
And as I mentioned earlier, we have been eating relatively well. For the past couple months I have fruit for breakfast, salad for lunch, something substantial for dinner because by then I'm feeling woozy. We go on walks, I'm constantly mindful of ways to sneak in a little bit of exercise...
...and I'm STILL over 160lbs and it STILL bothers me.
Guys, in no way am I "fat". I know that. In my intelligent brain, I know that. So why do I often feel like I'm staring at Jabba the Hut when I look in the mirror before stepping in the shower?
How terrible is that? Why can't I just erase all that body image garbage weighing down my mind and realize it makes no difference to what kind of person I am?
Doesn't my character matter more than my appearance?
Shouldn't I be more worried about which soup kitchen I can get a shift in? Shouldn't I be answering the call from the United Blood Services (programmed as "vampires" in my phone) to set up an appointment rather than ignoring it? Shouldn't I dig through my cupboards and cook up a casserole for the sick family next door? I don't even know if there is a sick family next door because I don't know my neighbors! (Most of them are potheads and wouldn't answer the door anyway, /shrug)
How did I let it get this bad? How did I get to the point that I'm so wrapped up in how I look that I'm barely seeing anything around me that I can help with?
It's unfair to myself that I'm having this existential crisis in the middle of our moving adventure so pretty much I look terrible ALL the time as well as I need help from OTHER people as well as my time is mostly blocked out with packing and cleaning and working.
On a similar note; finally did laundry last night. Found a clean load of Mark's shirts in the dryer that had been sitting nice and pretty for probably a week, ready to be folded. Sorry, babe.
Guys, how am I gonna be a mom with my mind and ego in this blubbery, compromised state? How am I gonna look at my post baby body and think, "Those stretchmarks and those sore boobs are so worth it and I am such a beautiful woman," when I can't hardly do so with my young and healthy body now.
How can I teach my daughters their worth when I don't even see my own? Or my sons!
How can I teach my children to look beyond themselves when I don't see beyond myself?
Do as I say, not as I do?
While I was up and miserable last night I got out my landscape drawing pad, put it up vertically and using a black sharpie started scrawling angrily all the things I hate about myself.
It started with a huge, all-caps UGLY underlined at the top and went from there. By the time I got to the bottom there wasn't room for all the words and I started filling in the holes back up the sides.
It sounds horrible but it was cathartic and I'm glad I did it. Why? Because at the end of it all I looked at my terrible piece of loathe-art and realized that the majority of what I'd written was all outward appearance based. "Fat", "ugly", and nit picky bits about my face and body that I don't view as perfect.
If those are the worst things about me, the terrible, awful things that were making me cry and tantrum late into the night...then maybe I'm not doing as bad as I think. Maybe I'm actually okay and just need to forget myself.
In that moment by myself with my page full of downers I desperately wanted Mark to realize something was wrong and come check on me. I wanted him to come hold my face and tell me every good thing he's ever seen in me and convince me that I was wrong. That the things I saw weren't true.
But he was asleep. And it's not his job. He can't control or directly affect the way I see myself. And he shouldn't! They're my eyes and my brain and my responsibility. I'm grateful for his presence and ability to bring me back to reality when my ego's getting unmanageable. I'm grateful for his love that reminds me that I'm worth something beyond my contribution to fashionable appearances.
I need to take care of me. I need to love me. I need to forget me and be more mindful of others. Did freaking Jesus care about his complexion and whether his robe was hiding his tummy fat? No! He was too busy healing blind people and spouting parables and turning water into wine.
I can't do any of that, obviously, I'm no doctor or Messiah and I'm no good with symbolism and making up stories.
But I can visit lonely people. I have a healthy body that could do yard work for those less...sprightly. I could call my Mom more. I could cook dinners for busy Moms. Wouldn't I rather my hands be dirty and scratched from weeding/pruning somebody's yard than adorned with the swankiest manicure around?
Wouldn't I rather my feet be sore and tired from walking with my husband, enjoying the fresh air rather than propped up and chillin' in front of the tv?
I would! I would so much rather!
And I would rather the world did it with me, too.