Skin

At the age of 36, I am only just becoming comfortable in my own skin. I am discovering what works for me – what sort of books I really enjoy reading, the clothes and colours that suit me, what friends to keep and which ones to do away with (only in the literary sense of course), what foods to avoid and which ones to consume in copious amounts and how to treat my Self with respect and gentleness. In other words, I am discovering myself as I never did in my teens and twenties.


In my twenties, I engaged in a few disastrous relationships that in hindsight I should have avoided like the plague. I conformed to the wants of the other person and so was never really myself. They liked to party then so did I, they skived off lectures then so did I, they loved fast motor bikes then so did I – you get the picture? It was always about the other person. I moulded myself to what they wanted because I wanted to be a part of something – a relationship – no matter how unhealthy it was. But there you go. I am sure this is a familiar pattern with many of you as well. I sort of darted through those years directionless and unsure of who I was and what I really wanted out of life and quite frankly, I didn’t give it much thought – life was too fun.

My twenties also spelt lots, and I mean LOTS, of fashion bloops. I was the type of girl who hung onto every word the glossies would tell you about what was in and what was out. I would wear those built in shoulder pads that planes could taxi off even if it killed me! Oh, how I cringe when I see photos of myself from the 80’s and the early 90’s. HOW COULD I EVER HAVE WORN THOSE CLOTHES?? Somebody shoot me!! I would destroy them all if I had my way, but I have to keep something for my daughter to laugh about in the years to come.

I think I really started to try my own skin on for size when I relocated to live in England. At 30, I was all alone for the first time – far away from my comfort zones which were family and my then estranged boyfriend (now husband). I had no choice but to discover the stuff I was made of. It was either accept defeat and return home with my tail between my legs or accept the challenge and embrace the next chapter in my life with abandon. I chose to embrace. And between the ages of 30 and 32 I grew so much – not in terms of size, but in terms of discovering myself, my strengths, my abilities, my likes and dislikes, and navigating, on my own, in my way, the stepping stones that will lead me to where I wanted to be.

And now fast approaching my thirty seventh birthday, there is no more pretence. Being a mum and most especially a wife gives you no other option but to be yourself. If you’re not then you are faced with being someone else for the rest of your life and your family will never have the joy or misfortune (as the case sometimes is) of experiencing the genuine you.


So I am myself now. Not anyone else. I am far more confident now than I was in my twenties. I speak up for myself and if I don’t like something I don’t hesitate to say so, diplomatically of course. I don’t follow the crowd and neither do I live a life that has been deemed the ‘right’ one to live by the experts. I wear my own skin, and I wear it well. It has the odd wrinkle here and a few stretch marks there – but I think they suit me. They are the battle scars of life that say Been There and Done That. I look forward to stretching my skin a bit more in the years ahead – new challenges, lifestyle changes and if all goes well, another baby perhaps.

And after all is said and done, I know I would much rather wear my own skin than anyone else’s.