I’m Not Worthy of Dating
For the entire 45 years of my life I have been a beautiful, intelligent blonde with a magnetically fun personality. The complete package.
For the first 35 years of that life I was thin. Perfectly thin. The kind of thin that deserves to be in magazines. The sort of thin that I looked at mannequins in stores and knew I could wear their stylish clothing. The type of thin that women in magazines could be my friends and we would hang out together in a idealized world that other women would give up anything to be a part of.

Sadly though, I never realized how beguiling I was. Instead, I was embarrassed to look in the mirror. I wore oversized clothes to hide the flaws I would obsess about. From the stretch marks on my legs I had obtained during the growth spurt in high school to the wide hips that formed the bubble but that made me curvier than was considered desirable. I forever stressed that men weren’t interested in me or that other, more attractive, women would find me repulsive at which point they wouldn’t want to be my friend.
I eventually married a Man that seemed to not get enough of me when we were dating, but then recoiled into his own world after I vowed to love and cherish until death parted us. That man showered me with words of encouragement as I pointed out my various flaws, but I didn’t listen. Believing in those words was like giving credit to my Mother who was required to say such words of motivation for I was her spawn.
Now, at 45 years of age, divorced and dating again, I look back at my younger self. The photos of a model woman so beyond perfect that I long to be her as a young teenager wishes to be the models in a fashion magazine. Only, I was her. In fact, I am her. I am that stunning young woman still in this middle aged ight overweight body. I may not have perky breasts or fit into size 6 jeans but I can squeeze into a size 14 and stuff my breasts into that Victoria’s Secret golden bra that makes me look like I’ve had an augmentation.
Some days I look in the mirror and think “Damn girl, you’ve still got it goin' on.” other days I can muster up a quick glance to be sure my hair is presentable in that messy bun and the comfy yoga pants don’t show my fat rolls. I recoil at the thought of accepting a request for a date in fear that all the spanx and spandex will make its appearance only to expose the hideous creature that lies beneath the facade.
At what point did I lose my confidence or even start to worry about how I looked?
Will I reach 50 or 60 and look back on my self today and wonder why I couldn’t see how amazingly attractive I am just as I do with my 30 year old self now?
People say that girls lose confidence when they become teenagers. That society is ruining young girls by holding them up to a high standard of women that we see in advertisements. That it’s the fashion industry’s fault for creating a world that is unrealistic causing our youth to starve themselves and spend 90% of their income on products that improve their image in attempts to match that which they see.
I’m not sure if that is truly the cause. Women have forever put forth the effort to make themselves more desirable to the opposite sex.
I do know that at 45, while I feel undateable, I will understand that I may not see myself as a beauty but the world sees a different me, a more beautiful me.

