Yet, I can’t help but wonder why a woman doesn’t chant these words or something less presumptuous, to herself as she starts her day? Why does a woman think perfection is a requirement to feel sexy? Sexy isn’t a dress size, a designer sling back shoe dangling from manicured toes, flawless complexion, a sculpted body, a spray tan, or even botoxed lips. Sexy is a feeling we carry inside ourselves and should wear intimately, if not brazenly.
For most women feeling sexy is tangled up in the way she sees herself in the mirror. Her reality rarely, if ever, reconciles with her desires. A younger woman might covet more or less of what she has and yearn for what is photoshopped on the glossies she views as gospel according to the Hearst Corporation. A woman in the middle of her life will look back over her shoulder and mourn the loss of her sharp angles and agility. She’ll smile towards her future but wonder if maybe she ran too fast into happily ever after. A well-heeled woman will laugh at the silly notions she had about being older, toss regrets into the trash bin, but she’ll pine excessively for the face she wore in her twenties. She’ll don lavish creams and ointments too pricey to reveal. She’ll consider the scalpel, thinking if only she looked less like her and more like something else, she would have her sexy back.
I lack all those adjectives that describe physical perfection. I do. I buy my shoes where Herman Munster does. Don’t get me going about the shape of my bum or the number of dead leg lifts I log each week to keep my arse where it belongs and not down with the back of my knees. I sometimes resent the number of miles I walk to keep my heart and head strong. I covet crusty baguettes lathered with double-cream brie washed down with an eighties style—buttery and oaky—chardonnay, instead of a heaping helping of veggie salad and quinoa, and a eight ounce glass of water with a slice of lemon. I have a few feathery lines around my eyes that were not there a decade ago, and now it takes days if not weeks to drop the five pounds I lose, gain, lose.
Even though the woman looking back at me in my mirror is never going to grace the cover of a glossy since I do not quite fit their description of outward facing beauty, I’ll never let go of my inner sexy. It’s as unique as a snowflake. It’s something every woman has inside. She only has to shake it lose and let it fall over her bare soul. Wear it brazenly and with gusto. Don’t hide it away for a special occasion. Wear it every day.
I remind myself on those gloomier days (face it, we all have them), that no woman, regardless if she is a size 0 or 24, is ever happy with the body she is slipping into her jeans. I know America’s Top Models struggle with the same issues as an everyday gal living her life on the page does. It doesn’t hurt a woman if she has everything working for her, but it doesn’t mean she is happier or has a handle the mundane issues we ALL wrestle.
Hand on my heart, I do believe it’s easier for a woman to face down her demon image issues if she embraces her flaws, size 11 feet and all, when she is donning her inner sexy. Go on, wear yours, what do you have to lose, except a smile or three. Give it a go, wear yours proud and take notice of how the world responds to you when you’re all shimmery and awash with sizzle. Come back and tell me about it.