I’m Gorgeous

“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.

It’s okay.

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…

I’m gorgeous.

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.

I know.

It’s enough.

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.