Being 36 Rocks, For Reals

I am a firm believer in the idea that every person comes into our lives for a reason, and generally we can take away something good from the relationship, no matter how it ended. (See previous entry. And I still haven't figured out how to make that a link to that entry, but just scroll down. It's there, I promise.) Well, it's been a year and a half since M and I broke up and I still struggle to come up with something good that I got out of my relationship with him. I know. Sounds a bit ridiculous, right? I mean, why the hell was I with the guy for 3 years? Temporary insanity? Deep seated insecurity? I don't know. But! Finally, today, I figured it out.

Are you ready?

M was the first guy I ever believed when he told me I was beautiful. (As I say that, if you could only see me now... Seriously. My hair is all jacked up from being shellacked into a bun for my spinning class. I have a spot of zit cream drying on my chin. My belly is hanging over my pajama bottoms just a bit. I am so totally not hot at this very moment.)

Let's face it, I am a late bloomer. I have only recently developed a makeup habit worthy of a teenaged girl. I absolutely cannot leave Target these days with out purchasing some sort of new makeup. I'm particularly obsessed with finding the perfect mascara. (I'm still somewhat of a neophyte, seeing as I still get tricked into buying waterproof mascara. I hate waterproof mascara. Feel free to leave your perfect mascara suggestions in the comments.) It took me until the age of 36 to come up with a real skin care regimen. (I think I already told you. Spent a boatload of money on it, and the good news is, it's totally awesome. My skin is dewy and fresh.) And, within the last couple of years I've developed somewhat of an addiction to the Brazilian wax.

Now, I know that makeup, dewy-fresh skin, and a waxed coochie aren't what make a woman beautiful. What makes me beautiful, and what surprises me, is that I am just now, in my mid-thirties, starting to get comfortable in my own skin. And it's not just about knowing how to do your makeup or what to wear. It's about knowing who you are and owning it. I finally know who I am. I finally think I am beautiful. I'm sure I would've gotten here eventually, but I suppose M helped me along. Begrudingly, I thank him for that.

All of this comes to mind, as I prepare myself for my first session tomorrow night with my new personal trainer, T. (I'm on this total self-improvement kick, since I quit smoking. I figured with the money I was saving not buying ciggies, I could afford T. He definitely costs more than a weeks worth of ciggies, but not much.)

I've been forewarned that T is going to ask me to name some goals. I definitely have goals that relate to my physical appearance. Hell, I'd like to get rid of the muffin top currently puffed out around my pajama bottoms. I'd like my arms to be more toned (less jiggly) and my butt to be a little bit perkier. (One thing I have noticed with age, aside from crow's feet, is that my butt ain't what it used to be.) But, the more I think about it, the more I realize that not all of my goals are appearance related. Some of my goals are performance related. For instance, I'd like to be able to do 10 regular push-ups (no sissy kind with the knees). I'd like to be able to do at least 1 pull-up. (I have never in my life been able to do a pull-up unassisted.) Most of all, I'd like to make it through an entire workout with T without whining. I'd like to think that the sense of accomplishment I have when I've reached those goals will make me feel even more beautiful than a perky butt! Although, a perky butt sure will be nice.