Let It Go

Late last night, after I had already begun to drift off to sleep, Mr. Excitement got a call from his little brother back home in Iowa. He muted the TV and I could hear the deep baritone of his voice lulling me back to dreamland as he and his brother reminisced about glory days. Then one topic of conversation caught my interested. They were talking about women my boyfriend had dated and what had happened to them over the years. Again and again I heard phrase “She had a bunch of kids and just let herself go”.

At first I’ll admit I was pleased, delighting in the idea that all the beautiful women who had shared my true love’s bed years before I was ever out of diapers were now bloated and wrinkled and gray. Then as he echoed the phrase again, I remembered something my ex-husband Mr. Perfect had said about me as defense of his infidelity: “You’ve really let yourself go.”

For the rest of the night, long after Excitement hung up the phone, insecurities danced in my head. Above our sofa, where we spend most nights, there are some photographs of me back when I was 19, a muscular 135 pounds and dancing around in skin tight size 6s. The woman who lay beneath those photographs last night might only be 5 years older, but she is 65 pounds heavier and although her maternity jeans might be skin tight, they weren’t intended to be that way. I don’t bother to wear makeup anymore or push-up bras or high heels. In fact on most days you’ll find me in a baggy t-shirt, blue jeans and flip flops. Now granted, I can plead pregnancy on many counts but in the end I have to admit I have let myself go.

This morning, as Excitement drove me to school, I finally asked the question that had been plaguing me all night.