Vanity...

Yes, I know, that's me. I'm constantly trying to improve myself, constantly trying to improve my beauty so that everyone will find me beautiful, and for what? In the end, what does it really matter? It doesn't. I can't take it with me when I go. And when I do go, God isn't going to look at me and ask me how beautiful I was when I was here, He's going to ask me what I did. Trust me, it isn't going to be pretty. I'm constantly trying to fix what's broken, and looking in the mirror, the years are catching up with me quickly. I see every line, every flaw staring back at me. Instead of embracing them, and aging with grace, I'm aging with anger. I don't know where the time went, and I don't know why at age 34, I look like this.

Sure, I've lost 174lbs, my body is a train wreck, but I put it together nicely in clothing. Just for once in my fucking life I'd like to to be able to put on a bikini and not have the skin hanging. I'd like to have my breasts be where they were before I lost weight and got pregnant. I'd like to be able to have my face look as good as it did when I was 21, but the chances of me honestly having any of this is slim to none.

I may get my surgeries, and I may not. The point is, I need to be happy with myself, and I'm just not. I know I'm not the only one. I see Rob's wife constantly vying for his attention like a little school girl. That makes me even sadder. At least I'm not leaving pathetic sex posts on Facebook for the world to see trying to get my husband's attention. I have it. I have plenty of attention from men and women alike, but for some reason, it just isn't enough. I always want more.

Maybe some day, I'll be happy, or maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to live with what I have, and realize, it truly *is* beautiful enough.