I’m standing in the cold at my daughter’s soccer game. I have a huge furry blanket wrapped around my body, looking like I’m Sansa Stark from Game of Thrones. I despise being cold. Luckily the blanket is doing a decent job keeping my bones warm. But my face feels the ache, not covered by the warmth, exposed to the chill of the January air.
Watching the action out on the field, I decide to take a selfie and post on Facebook, thinking I can share about being a parent and what we do to support our kids – like standing in the subzero tundra for 90 minutes as they kick a ball.
I unwrap my hand from the blanket and grab my phone out of my coat pocket. I hold the phone below the standard selfie line. Everyone knows all selfies should be taken with your phone at least above eye level. It’s more flattering. Still, I hold the phone below my chin because a part of me is a little self-conscious about taking a selfie in public. On one hand, I don’t really care what other people think, but at the same time I somewhat do. I’m not the type of person that takes selfies. Whatever “that type” of person is I’m not sure entirely but I don’t think many 39-year-old moms take selfies.
At least not in the middle of their daughter’s soccer game.
Holding the phone under the selfie-line, I place my frigid finger on the “Capture” button. Selfie taken without being detected by the crowd, I pull up Facebook to post. I click on upload photo and pause as I see my face in the image I just captured.
Look at those wrinkles around my eyes.
Look at the lines around my mouth.
My finger pauses on the “Post” button as I debate filtering the photo. But I can’t do that. Filtering my photo to remove my wrinkles would be fake. I made a vow to myself to not be fake on my blog. I might not share every detail of my life, but I’m not going to cover up anything real with something manufactured.
Standing there in the cold, the action on the field is paused for a water break but I continue my own game in my head. There are two sides playing in my mind, kicking the idea of my wrinkles around.
Do they really bother me? If they do, why don’t I do something about them? But when I start to consider fixing my face, I start to think about the other things I would rather fix first. I start picking apart the other pieces of me that also need adjusting.
Once I go through the grocery list of things I don’t like about myself, I realize I probably won’t fix anything. Because fixing this body requires money. Money is valuable and the idea of spending thousands of dollars on this shell seems wasteful in some ways. I’d rather spend my money on actual life.
Creating memories with my family, not erasing the lines on my face.
Filling my soul with new experiences, not filling my bra cup size.
Seeing more of the world, not the gap between my thighs I’ve always wanted.
Team “stop worrying about your face” scored a point in my head. Game over. For now. I place my cold finger on the “Post” button and put my phone back in my coat.
I’m not going to worry about how I look in that image. Those lines around my mouth and eyes found their way on my face. They were etched by every smile and frown, every squint from the warm sun I love so much.
They tell a story of the time I’ve had here on this earth so far. And, for now, I would rather let them stay there and tell their story. Let those lines stay as I go out in the world and create more moments that might etch those lines even deeper.