Batwings and Blessing

Loving my body — loving me — is a practice.

Especially in a world determined to point out everything going “south.”

Yes, I’ve got bat wings.

My jawline has softened.

Lines have settled in.

The odd silver hair pops up like it owns the place.

And still, I’m told I’m “lucky.”

Lucky to have fewer greys.

Lucky to “still look young.”

As if youth is the only acceptable way to exist.

Meanwhile, we’re being sold the “perfect body”:

Lift this.

Fill that.

Freeze here.

Plump there.

Basically, become a startled version of your younger self.

But I don’t want to be perfect.

I want to be me —

the me who has earned every line through laughter, tears,

and the occasional questionable decision.

So the next time you think,

I can’t wear that, my arms will show,

ask yourself:

What’s the alternative?

Everything going south is nature doing her thing.

And honestly?

Being here long enough to witness it is a blessing.

So yes — I’ll wake up to another day,

another wrinkle,

a little more softening,

and that batwing waving proudly at the sun.

Batwings and blessings —

I’ll take them both with gratitude.