Brown Eyes

Sometimes, I just have to look at myself.

Most of the time, I just don't look because I'm afraid to. I have a traumatic past with myself.

But today, I got a new dress, and so I took this picture, and here is what I see.

It looks like I'm wearing lipstick, but I'm not. They just look like that. My mom used to say I had "rosebud lips," and now my daughter has them, and here, in this picture, I still have them, except they're grown up. Not a rosebud anymore, I guess. Over the course of my life, people have loved me enough to want to kiss them. And kissing - isn't that something? Mashing your mouths together to demonstrate affection for one another? I always think about that. Always. You think I'm kidding. Every time I've ever kissed someone, this special person living inside me for the sole purpose of dampening nice moments has to come out and say, "THINK ABOUT IT, of ALL the ways in the entire universe that humans could possibly choose to show affection for one another, THIS is what we've settled on."

But people have wanted to kiss them, and that's cool with me.

There's a little mole between my lower lip and chin that seems to get more prominent with age. I don't think it was there in photos I see of myself from high school or even early college. My dad constantly tells me I can have it removed, and I constantly tell him that I like it there. When he tells me that, I get upset, inside, and I usually have to say to someone, "You'll never believe what my dad told me," and then they're like, "That's terrible," and I'm like, "I know," and I get that sense of validation I've craved since childhood.

I see that I'm getting older. I think it took me a long time to look like a woman. A real, bona fide, grown up woman. You wanna know how much I weigh? Here. Here's how much I weigh.

I weigh 138.4 pounds. I'm five-foot-four, and I weigh 138.4 pounds.

Take that, old self. Take that, putrid American societal standards of beauty.

I'm not sure I've ever done that before.

But you know what? 138.4 is a good weight for me, myself, a woman. Maybe not in general, but for me. It wasn't a good weight for me as a teenager, not when all my friends were only about 110. But now, I'm a woman. Even if I'm not really taller, I seem taller, and leaner, somehow, maybe because my hips changed a bit after having a baby. I have no idea what it is, but it works, now. It didn't before, and now it does.

I used to wear green contacts, too. I wouldn't leave the house without them. I'd sleep in them, sometimes for a month at a time. I didn't want to believe that I didn't really have green eyes. And very few people could tell that they weren't real, either.

My ex-boyfriend used to practically revere them. If I took them out for any reason, he'd just look at me and sigh and say, "Brown eyes." Just that. Just, "Brown eyes."

And I was horrible and unappreciative (still am), so I'd write him off as not knowing what beautiful was and hurriedly put them back in. Yes, even if I was laying down to bed.

"Brown eyes."

Crappy insurance and the cost effectiveness of glasses changed that.

I got married and started wearing glasses and chose to get over my negative obsession with my eyes because ... well, it wasn't like I had anyone to impress anymore. Right? My husband found me attractive first thing in the morning when I was at my absolute worst. It was like I didn't even have to try for this dude. I just had to exist and he fell all over me.

Falls ... all over me. I should say. I'm a lucky girl. Woman. Girl.

Anyway, now I love my eyes.

I had no idea how dark and penetrating they can be. I don't know many people up here, up north, with eyes that dark. I appreciate them now. I wish my vision was better so that I didn't have to wear glasses at all, so that I could enjoy them more, and so my husband could enjoy them more, too.

Behind me, there's the fridge.

I can sit and look at myself in Photobooth and try to be pretty all day long -- we can't deny that there's a refrigerator behind me. Super glamorous.

This is significant, though.

My life is reflected on that fridge.

There's a stark contrast between the woman I'm looking at in the photo and the reflection of her life on that fridge.

A calendar indicating that my daughter's last vaccinations are coming up next week. Invitations to childrens' birthdays. Family photos. Coupons for recycling bags.

I can't even define what is means to be "grown up" right now.

Which part of this photo that I'm looking at really says "grown up?"

Confidence? Obligations? A new, more perfunctory view of ... what, my face?

What is the value of "grown up" anyway? Personally, I don't see any real value in the notion of "grown up" that I've maintained my whole life.

This was a deliberate experiment in self-awareness, particularly in the department of self-esteem and self-validation. Lots of self in there. It was necessary.

I have a very traumatic past with myself.