Here’s Proof that We’re All Beautiful

“You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.” –Dita Von Teese

I’m convinced God made beauty subjective so that every woman has the capacity to feel beautiful; for everyone who doesn’t think I’m beautiful there is someone out there who does. God did that to make up for all the shat we have to deal with (ammarite, ladies???).

It doesn’t matter if you are single with no kids, single with ten kids, married with no kids, or Michelle Dugger. Sometimes women get shat on.

{Yes, I’m sure men do, too. But I’m not a man so I can only speak for my kind. If you are a man and want to talk about it, start your own blog.}

Por ejemplo (See! I AM fluent in Spanish!):

I usually wake up at 5:30 am (ACTUALLY… I hit the snooze a time or two or three so it’s more like 6 am by the time I roll out of bed. Seriously, I ROOOOLL out of bed. Not a morning person). Anyway, by 7:30 am I’ve been an alarm clock for two kids, a stylist for 2 little rock stars, I’ve been verbally accosted several times by both a three and six year old (in true rock star form), I’ve been a cook,

{GAH! Stop looking at me that way! Ok, ok, you got me. I don’t “cook” breakfast. I’ve been a pop tart warmer (that’s what she said)… FINE! I take the pop tarts out of the bag and plop them directly on the table. Not even on a napkin… HAPPY NOW???}

I’ve been a (I don’t know what you call someone who feeds dogs), a chauffeur, and I usually get to work around 7:45. At this point, I sit in my car and put on my makeup (yes, that’s me), wipe dog slobber and sticky hand prints from my suit (I’ve stopped trying to guess what the sticky is from… I think it’s best I not know), and try to pull it together enough to look like I know what I’m doing for approximately 9 hours.

{Mostly, it’s 9 hours of listening to employees bitch about not getting a raise or wonder why their $50k bonus check wasn’t $60k. #firstworldproblems}.

Then, I pick up my two little love nuggets, endure more verbal abuse as they scream at me from the back seat of the car (AND maybe Roman throws a shoe) after I’ve informed them that I’m cooking dinner and not taking them to Chick-Fil-A for the third night in a row, and try to contain the chaos as much as I can until my hubs gets home so he can stand in the kitchen and wonder why the refrigerator door is open, a chandelier is falling down, and the back of our house is missing.

All of this to say that no matter what shat gets thrown at me, I know that at the end of the day I can shower it off, stand in my closet wearing my skivvies after everyone is in bed and in certain light the cellulite and wrinkles go away and I KIIIIIIIIND OF resemble Nina Dobrev. That’s when I feel beautiful: standing in my closet by myself in front of the mirror with one tiny light on pretending I’m on the CW hit show Vampire Diaries. Stop laughing. The circumstances don’t matter. I can say I feel beautiful. That’s what counts (for the purposes of this post, anyway).

Slight Tangent Alert: ever sat on your couch on a Saturday night after a break up and wonder how the Mama Junes and Snookies of the world find love and you haven’t? (Yeah, no, I’ve never done that either… I was just checking to, um… Never mind.)

STOP IT. Seriously, no one likes a whiner.

{Just kidding. I’m no good at the tough love thing. I will ALWAYS lie to you and tell you what you want to hear (that’s what he said). I love you. Please don’t leave me.}

We should ALWAYS feel pretty knowing that there will ALWAYS be someone more unfortunately proportioned, less attractive, meaner, dumber, more annoying, and with more sticky hand prints on their suit. So put a smile on your pretty face and go conquer the world. I’m gonna start with Roswell… or at least my house.

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