“I’m fat,” I say.
We’ve just made love…we are 55…we’ve been together for 36 years…we’re each other’s one and only lover…ever…
I was 110 pounds of long legs and silky hair when we met. I was gorgeous, but I didn’t know it.
We got married. We had kids. I was trim.
In my 40’s, for the first time in my life, I got fat. So fat, my breasts were abundant.
But I was fat.
I lost weight. I was, once again, slim. I was gorgeous.
Ten years passed.
I got fat again. Menopause and anti-depressants. Ten years older, crow’s feet and age spots.
Which is where I am today.
Today, I love myself. I’m happy. I have a good marriage. My kids are doing well. My career is vibrant, and I make a good living. I’m talented and creative and…if you don’t mind a little padding, well…
Not because I’m slim, which is what he calls me, even though I’m not.
Not because I have exceptionally great skin, which I do.
Not because I can still turn a head. Which I can.
I’m gorgeous because I love, and I care, and I give and think and try.
I’m gorgeous because I love. I love. I LOVE.
It feels good.
“I’m fat,” I say as we make love. 165 pounds.
He doesn’t argue.
He’d like me thinner. I’d like that, too.
But still, I think, I’m gorgeous, even if I’m no longer his skinny little wife.
Knowing all the ways that I am, indeed, gorgeous, fills my soul with great joy.
He loves me. He always will. He is my deepest and dearest and only love.
I am no longer slim. It’s unlikely I’ll ever weigh less than I do at this moment.
That will have to be okay for him. It’s okay for me.
I’m happy. I’m at peace.
So, I’m gorgeous.