A lumpy, bumpy preamble

I am a lumpy, bumpy person.

I went to see a doctor about my lumpy, bumpy legs.
She took a quick glance at the pulsing lines that resemble those at-home ant farms you used to put in your bedroom, and she said, "Oh ya. You definitely need surgery. And you really should be wearing these." At which point she pulled up her short skirt to show me her thigh highs. I was at that moment so horribly jealous that some people can wear thigh highs without a pound of pimply flesh spilling over the top and at the same time nonplussed that a professional, a doctor, was lifting up her skirt and showing me her crotch region.

Then there's my face. A lumpy, bumpy landmine.
Of course every dermatologist has a cure. And they all cost at least $200. Each time.

And my teeth. A zigzag disaster. Braces? Sure, they tell me, for only $6000.

And I am not making any income at the moment.
Not exactly a large budget for vanity in my household.

Yet everywhere I turn a professional is telling me how they can fix me.

And I don't want to be fixed. I like my grey hair. I am learning to love me snaggled teeth too. I am tired of hating my horrible skin, and I am sick of being ashamed of my legs.

I say fuck. You. People-who-want-to-fix-me. I'm just fine the way I am. I don't need to be fixed.

At least this is what I want to say. But that's not what comes out. What comes out is envy and shame and fear. And it's ugly.

The real problem is that I don't want to want to be fixed.

But 40 is right around the corner. And as my 9 year old tells me, I am old.

Even my toes look old.

And I'm embracing it. At least I'm trying to. At least I want to want to try.