Finally. I’ve been lying about my age since my early 30’s. People would ask and I would reply, “Oh, I’m 42.”  Lying up works, friends. It typically took a few minutes before people would realize that I was exaggerating. Some actually believed the ruse: “You look amazing for 42.” Yes, yes I did.

But all my fibbing has finally caught up to me. 42.  This is me today. Basically unvarnished, save for a touch of mascara. I especially love the state of my hair in this photo, because those flyaways are with me always. This is how I really look. I’m rocking the thrift store plaid and yes, that’s cleavage. (the only upside to being 30 odd lbs over weight). Glamourous? No. Sexy? Hells yeah. I feel sexy because I’m discovering that sexy is a state of mind. I’m choosing it. (I think you should choose it too, because you can, you know!)

Here’s the thing, I’m not without faults. I do want to drop some lbs. I did it last year and then was undone by my grief over this house. So, I’d like to reclaim that victory. My skin isn’t what it used to be, but that’s just a really good excuse to splurge on moisturizer and pamper myself more.  And let’s face it, I creak when I walk and I have a closet full of pretty shoes I’ll never wear again. However, other than the usual complaints (Um, what, food allergies?!?) I’m happy with me. Comfortable in my own skin.  The stuff I need to work on is just that, not the definition of who I am. And certainly not the only description of me!

So, if you ask me how old I am, I’ll own up to it today. I’m 42. Which seems like a perfect number.