On Beauty (Inevitable Renee Zellweger Post)

So, Renee Zellweger.
 
I have to confess that I saw the now-infamous photos of her "new face" and said something snarky, like, "WHAT WAS SHE THINKING" and then thought it was sad that she had to mess with what I thought was a perfectly lovely (and frankly quite adorable face) and then was all "bad surgery, too bad she felt like she had to do that, look at me being judgey mcjudgerson."

But then I started thinking about it -- and also? Feeling bad about my reaction.

Here's why.

1) If Renee Zellweger DID have surgery? That's her business. It's not mine. If she felt like she needed to have work done to feel beautiful and relevant? That's her duck, and I hope that -- if she did have work done -- that the result is that she feels amazing. She deserves that -- in fact, I think that we all do.

2) Also positing that perhaps Ms Zellweger had surgery? She had to look in the mirror and (hopefully after thinking "Hells YES! I look FAAAABULOUS!") know that she looks different, and that she'd have to take this face out and about -- and she had to know that people were going to talk about her.

Folks, I don't know that I would leave the house if that was the case. That's a lot of extra -- more than usual -- baggage for a person (even a famous one) with which to cope.

So kudos to Renee Zellweger for ROCKING that red carpet. Girlfriend is BRAVE.

3) If she did NOT have surgery? Then she's just doing that weird aging thing that WE ALL DO. It happens. It's a thing. People start looking different. Go figure. Maybe we're just not used to seeing celebrities age because they do so often have procedures and surgeries and that's why we're all confused and flabbergasted when someone starts to look different because they're letting all the years and love and learning show in their face.

And that? Is kind of also a shame. I'm all for "do what you gotta to feel pretty for you" but I'm also thinking "find the beauty that lives there and love it" -- I don't think we take enough time for that.

4) When I look at those photos? Renee Zellweger looks happy.

Happy is awesome. Happy is beautiful. Happy trumps "did she or didn't see" and "who's business is it anyway."

Happy? Is where it allllll should start and end.

And snarking on someone's happy? Is one of the un-loveliest things I have ever caught myself doing.

It won't happen again.

It's a Lifestyle Change, Part Four: Weighty

"You look great. Are you losing weight?"

"You know? I don't know."

*****

As I mentioned, I am changing the way I look at food, exercise, etc. 

As I did not mention, I threw out my scale for the last time. 

There were multiple reasons for this. The primary reason was that my scale was broken. Broken-ish. The battery was dead, so I would stand on it and nothing would happen. No scrolling of numbers followed by immediate judgement and possible self loathing. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

It was useless to me. There's no point in having a scale in your bathroom if it can't help you to determine your value as a human being.

So I tossed it. 

*****

I thought about replacing it. Without a scale, how would I know how to feel about myself? How would I know if I was pretty or worthy or valuable without a number in the digital readout?

*****

And then I thought, why am I being such an asshole to myself?

*****

Look. This isn't my first ride on this particular merry-go-round. I've tossed scales before -- and then bought new ones because my bathroom scale is like the most horrible security blanket ever. It's an INsecurity blanket -- it's what I rely on to make sure all of the worst things that I think about myself are true and, perversely?

I feel like I need it.

The problem with body dysmorphia, though -- and I know this as well -- is that the number on the scale will NEVER be small enough. There is no readout that would ever make me feel worthy or wonderful or beautiful.

And if that's the case?

Maybe I need to let it go. Even if it's scary. Even if I don't know what to do without it.

*****

I don't know if I'm losing weight or how much weight or what. I do know this: I feel good. I feel happy and pretty. I smile a lot more.

That's a lifestyle change I can embrace.
 

Mush

I have asthma. People with severe, chronic asthma are probably nodding sympathetically right now; people who love people with severe, chronic asthma are probably wincing right now, and people who are lucky enough not to be a member of this particular tribe are thinking, well, you have an inhaler, right?

Yes.

But.

Severe, chronic asthma generally equals really shitty immune system. Which also means "gets catastrophically ill at the drop of a hat" and also "will be absolutely fine one moment and blue from a lack of oxygen the next."

I would love it if the above was an exaggeration. It's not.

Not even a little.

Just ask my poor mom, who once spent the night of my birthday sitting up with me because she was literally afraid that I was going to die. I'd been fine that morning. By ten that evening? My lips, hands, and feet were blue as I tried to remember how breathing worked and how to do it. 

It sucks. It sucks a lot. But that's life. That's MY life. 

Or so I thought.

I got sick over the weekend, and The Fella? Made working with me, making certain I was okay, and looking after me his priority. He took time off to make sure I would have help if things went south quickly. He stayed with me and checked in and made sure that I had what I needed when I needed it. 

My lungs might not have been working the way I want them to, but my heart?

Melted.

I have asthma. It's a thing. But for the first time in my adult life? I have someone who gets it and wants to make sure that I'm okay -- and who will go out of his way to make sure that happens. 

My brain doesn't know what to do with this, of course.

But my heart?

Mush.