Imperfections of the Female Body

At every stage of my life since becoming a young woman, there has been something wrong with my body.

At age 12, it was my thighs. They were too fat! Please don’t make me wear that figure-skating tutu on the carnival ice! Then it was my ass; it stuck out too far. Then it was the hair on my arms; there was altogether too much of it, so off it came. I only took that fool step once before giving it up completely. I’m quite fond of the hair on my arms now, thank you very much.

On and on throughout the years, these little dissatisfied focuses on different areas of my body continued. The pores in the skin of my nose were too large. My boobs weren’t the shape they should be. My belly was round instead of flat. I had too much wiggle in my walk, or not enough. I had some crooked teeth.

Such neurotic little obsessions pop up to this day. The only difference is that by now, in my mid-fifties, I have learned that if I don’t dwell on them, my preoccupation with them will pass before I do something stupid (like the arm hair incident; it was perfectly normal arm hair, I tell you, and didn't deserve to be vanquished). I have turkey neck and a flat face? Big deal. My cleavage is wrinkly? Oh well. My eyelids droop? I have craterous crowsfeet? Vertical lines above my lip? A visible moustache? 

So what. Tomorrow, with any luck, I won’t even notice.

Three burr oaks; three perfect sisters.