Two years ago during February Photo Fest a similar picture nearly made me cry, but I posted it anyway because it was still me. Not “sexy,” but alive and worn in the best possible way. It made me feel honest to a fault and closer to you all. It also challenged me and my idea of what was allowed for my body.
This photo is similar: my silvery stretch marks form a little constellation on my hip, my pooch pools just a little in my lap, the crease in my back cuts a dark slash across the pillowy cream of my skin.
Now I’m sounding like a dessert.
And it’s real and vulnerable, a photo I might have hesitated to text to a man once upon a time, but today I wouldn’t. I’d send it with an air of defiance. I dare you to not love this, dicknose!
The older I get the more I think about the back half of the mountain and how I want to feel in my own skin. Strong, worthy, virile. Nothing about looking 25 again because I’m not 25 – I’m nearly twice that age now – and because of that I have no interest in turning back the hands of time. I’d rather clasp them in my own and do the waltz all the way to the beautiful end.