On Being Real

I recently made a comment about personal appearance after hiking with other women. I said it was nice to hike with women who didn’t care about their appearance. Obviously, what I meant to say was, It’s nice to be outdoors with women who are not freaking out because their make-up got smeared, their colors don’t match, or their stomach isn’t as flat as it used to be. Or something like that. Perhaps I should have said, I don’t care about my appearance when hiking, I just want to be comfortable.

For my entire life, I have never been overly concerned about caking on make-up or wearing the proper colors or styles.  I want to be clean and comfortable. I figured if people don’t like what I wear or what I look like, they shouldn’t hang out with me. I refuse to be overly concerned about things that used to drive me to unhealthy behaviors. The greatest compliment I can offer someone is to be 100% myself with them, without pretense, without caring that the age spots on my face look more scary every day. Or my mid-section is fuller than it was when I was starving myself. As Popeye the Sailor said, I yam who I yam. 

In a time when everyone seems so addicted to being offended about everything, I’m relieved to find people who understand that not everything is about them. Not every comment is a criticism. I’m just happy I can put on my shorts, shirt, sports bra, wool socks, boots, and pack or fly fishing gear and enjoy the woods without worrying whether the fashion police will be ticketing women who aren’t perfect in shape, weight, hair, and makeup. 

I am more concerned about what’s happening in my heart, my friend’s heart’s, than what any of us wear or what we look like. Haven’t women evolved past that? I sure hope so.