At 46

Throughout my young adulthood – right up until recently – I was obsessed with the concept of beauty. I looked at women, comparing myself constantly, always falling short. If she didn’t have better hair, then she had better skin, or longer, leaner legs, or prettier, smaller feet. If she didn’t have better boobs – which was extremely rare – then she had more feminine hips. I even compared my fingernails if all else failed and … well … my fingernails were fat.

When I was 24, a man with whom I had a brief interlude didn’t think I was pretty. He didn't have to say it - I didn’t feel pretty so I know I didn't look pretty. But the last time I saw him, this man told me something important. “You’re one of those women,” he pronounced, “who’s going to be really beautiful in her forties.” 

And you know what? He was right! I finally feel beautiful, from my legs that are muscly and hold me up - even one at a time - to my mind, which, though not quite as balanced as my legs, at least knows what it doesn't know. (Maybe that's balance, too.) Now when I see a beautiful woman, the urge to compare or compete is gone. I smile and think "Damn, that's a beautiful woman!" 

I've earned every wrinkle, every laugh line, every small sagging thing. I've earned them and love them. I'm not bragging - or maybe I am, but when I run the gauntlet from the bar to the bathroom I can feel men's eyes warm to me. So I strut a little and shake my rapidly graying hair with an air of "You can't touch this!" Maybe they think I'm beautiful, or maybe it's all in my head, but it just doesn't matter anymore. 

Thirty years ago I disdained as promoting arrogance the ad campaign that ended "Because I'm worth it." Now I believe it.