Perfectly fine

Any piece of clothing can be sexy with a quietly passionate woman inside it.
Anonymous

I bought this cheap, olive green thermal-looking shirt the other day at the drug store. It’s very thin – not build for warmth at all. I figured it’d be a good weekend shirt and for six bucks, I couldn’t pass it up.

So I put it on Saturday, Saturday being the weekend and all. And as it turns out, this shirt fits me perfectly. So perfectly in fact that it makes me look like I weight 15 pounds less than I do in a different shirt. So perfectly that I looked in the mirror a good two minutes – something I rarely do – and suddenly all of the rules from all of those makeover shows I sit here and watch came back to me.

Then I smiled.

A stupid, cheap shirt in a weird color – and it made me feel so incredibly good – and sexy. My hair looked good, my new glasses make my face look less round and it just was a picture perfect moment.

I’ll admit it. I’ve been obsessing about the ‘repair work’ lately. It’s like I have nearly everything else done, especially the glasses and the hair - and being just almost there….so close, but not quite.

But how much does that matter, really? Isn’t the fact that I looked good in the mirror in the crappy little shirt enough for me? Why all of the sudden do I feel so fucking greedy for wanting more than I have? I mean, the fact that I got a second chance for myself with the weightloss… that I have a good enough job that I can walk in and drop 450.00 on a pair of stylish glasses and how much ever it takes to get my hair cut/styled and highlighted… why can’t I be satisfied with that? Has my inner perfectionist gotten so loud that she’s starting to drown out the rest of me?

Maybe.

But she needs to shut the hell up because honestly --- for 43 years old, I look pretty goddamn good. What’s more is the confidence behind that smile on my face, and how much that radiates outward and makes me more attractive and dare I say it – sexier.

It’s my own attitude that decides every morning whether I feel good when I walk out that door and go to the office. It’s my own outlook that decides if the curls make it a good hair day or a bad hair day. And it’s the sincerity of my smile in the mirror that decides every day if I’m a sexy bitch, or just a lady in waiting to be perfect.

Screw perfect. Surgery will come in time. But what I have now is nothing to sneeze at. And it’s time I quit using it as an excuse to wait for my real life to start.