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It's amazing how my self-confidence changes daily. Generally, though, the older I seem to get the more comfortable I am. The more I see (or understand) that I have a place in the world. A place that is my place. One that doesn't depend on anyone else, except for me. Physically, I struggle to feel good about myself. It seems to me that this is more the norm than the aberration. I no longer see that as necessarily bad, though. Perhaps feeling good about oneself comes with time. Comes with development and comes with the ability to see that personal identity can be separate from the rest of the world.

I always wanted to be able to wear stretchy shorts. Or shorts, really. I always wanted to be one of those people who looked good and who felt good about it. I go to the gym, but it doesn't really seem to do any good physically. Though mentally, I'm a nut case without a good workout. Anyway, my cousin gave me some stretchy shorts a couple of years ago and it's been my goal to be able to put them on and feel good about myself. For the sake of liberation, I don't know. I'd tried it a few times and never got out my front door more than once or twice. There was always some imperfection--some grand imperfection--that kept me from feeling as though I should be allowed to dress in such a way. Instead of wearing what I wanted, I could never get past what other people would think. Or, what I thought other people would think. Which, I come to realize, is a really unhealthy way of being.

The other day, though, I tried again. I put on the stretchy shorts and knew that I didn't look that good, but I felt good for the first time in those shorts. I felt strong and sexy and liberated. I felt as though I had a right to wear them even though I knew I wasn’t perfect. Other people could look at me and think whatever they wanted to think and I could just be me. The thing is, I couldn’t actually get myself to look in the mirror. It’s like I have this understanding with myself that whatever I think is fine—because it is just a though—but to test the thought with reality somehow threatens its truth and reinforces the fantasy of it all.

Since then, I’ve worn them a few more times. Each time, I look in the mirror more and more frequently. Gradually, though. And, each time, I feel less justified. I am back to wondering if imperfection deserves to be revealed. Yesterday, I actually talked to someone I knew in those shorts. I even rode the bike next to him. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but I didn’t let on. I think it’s as much a mental game as anything else. If I can convince myself that it’s justified, then somehow of course it is.

For the sake of my own personal triumphs, I’m going to try and get past thinking that it’s not okay. I’m going to put them on and be proud. Try and not care about not being perfect and just be whatever it is I am and feel justified in doing that.