I am perfectly imperfect.
I live a perfectly imperfect life.
With a perfectly imperfect body … that has carried my soul around perfectly for almost 50 years. I’ve abused it with alcohol, nicotine and sugar. Fed it and starved it. Made unrealistic demands on it at times. Hated it, loved it, hated it even more, then realised it’s the only body I’d ever have, so I made peace with it and learnt to love it, with all its perfect imperfections. From wrinkles to scars, grey hairs and cellulite, crappie teeth and freckles.
I love it for carrying and delivering my four perfect gifts to the world. Each one a masterpiece.
I love that it allows me to show up and wrap my arms around my loved ones when they need someone to be there for them, a hug, an ear to listen and a heart to care.
That despite repeated heart breaks, it keeps moving, keeps breathing and smiling.
So when you see me, with my makeup, high heels and smile, underneath, I’m perfectly imperfect … simply making the best of my perfectly imperfect imperfections.
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