The Ugly Years

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Just before I graduated high school, I got this amazing idea: chop off all of your hair (think Mandy Moore c. 2003). Ashamedly, I did not have Locks of Love in mind. No, I was entirely selfish.

I wanted a new start.

You see, hair has always been my calling card. I have never dyed or treated my hair and somehow – by the blessing of God – I maintained golden locks for the first three decades of my life.

My mother’s experience, however, would foreshadow my own: blonde until babies. And, right on time, I gradually lost my sun-kissed signature hair in the years following childbirth.

But it was impossible for me to predict the other changes that were simultaneously emerging – the widening hips, the spider veins, and the wrinkles.

The ugly years, without my consent, had arrived.

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The Last Eleven Pounds

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When I stare into the mirror, I see an inflated version of myself. Eleven pounds – to be exact – have been added. At times, I struggle to recognize this latest reflection of myself. She looks tired.

As I write this, it is approximately 10:42 p.m., and my body wants to run. I have eaten calories that need to be burned. And yet, I am readying myself for bed. Sleep trumps fitness and any neurotic weight concerns that I may have.

The children will need my energy and, more importantly, an agreeable mood tomorrow.

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