There’s a hole in my stockings, I just realized. And I have no plans to run out for a new pair.
I’ve been rubbing a dab of lipstick on my cheeks for weeks. Because I have run out of blusher.
I can’t remember the last time I wore nail polish. It seems like so much effort.
And despite the upward creep of the numbers on my scale, I chose a pot of tea and the newspaper over exercise this morning.
I used to be fierce.
I used to take pride in the curve of my hips and the nip of my waist. In the sharp line of my haircut and the smart click of my heels. I used to revel in the power yielded by beauty and youth.
My beauty and youth.
But now it is not my beauty and youth that makes my heart swell.
Now it is his chubby tummy and the delicious way the cuffs of his jeans kiss his stylish sneakers that make me catch my breath. Now my yearning for the divine is satiated by lilt of his eyelashes and the exquisite hazel hue of his eyes.
And it is enough.
There’s a hole in my stocking, I have lipstick on my cheeks, my nails are bare and my tea is beckoning.
And that’s more than good enough, right now.