When a 10 Turns 31

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I guess I should be hesitant. To turn 31. I never really understood why. I mean, I’m ok with who I currently am. Sure I’m far from perfect, but I’m me. I’m a result of all of the events in my life. The good and bad. Yet I wonder about those who are ashamed. Those who avoid talking about their age, who sweep it under the rug as if the years don’t come and go. As if the rest of the world ages while they stay the same. I try to understand. Fearful of the conclusions I may come to, afraid of the insecurities I may create. I see now that I have not landed on happiness, I have chosen it.

You see, I have many insecurities. From how my tummy sticks out to the way I pronounce the number 6 sometimes. This doesn’t negate the fact that I have many moments where I feel perfectly content as myself. Other times, I’m simply pretending. I’ve accepted that I may not like myself ALL of the time, but I most certainly would love myself all of the time. It was a simple decision, I just had to make sure that I would stick to it. Most people go through life apologizing for themselves, while I had absolutely zero sorrys left to give. I am a jumbled mess of harsh words and long hair. I can easily translate from English to Spanish, but not the other way around. I have a thick Chicago accent, and thick Chicago legs. And I like my suitors like I like my friends, imaginary.

You see, I have faced many demons. Some that weren’t even my own. I had to deal with the ideas that others had about girls like me. That it’s not ok to love my fat body out loud. That I shouldn’t be so outspoken. That I should be more of a certain way in order to be desirable. As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that all I ever really wanted was to be myself. To be able to be loud and proud about ME. Despite who that might offend. Despite how uncomfortable my outfits made some, I would wear them. I would laugh loud, scream even louder, and live in absolute acceptance of myself.

Insecurities are absolutely exasperated by social media. There are thousands of images of the type of girl I’ll never be. Skinny, young, rich, but I am not saddened. Yes I love perfect social media pages, with perfect people portraying perfect lives. But I also love reality. The real and regular people who go on Social Media and are themselves, flaws and all. These are the types of people I admire, the bravery of being imperfect on platforms where people expect you to be just that. Even myself, who am proud of being a beautiful fat girl, have had to remind people of what it comes with. It comes with stretch marks, cellulite, it comes with preconceived notions. It comes with other peoples hang ups. I’m not a “perfect” fat girl, as much as I may look like one. (toot, toot)

As I face this next year, I’m not afraid, or ashamed. Sure, 31 is new. But it’s me, it’s who I’m becoming, and I’ll only be it for one year. I’m tired of apologizing for things I have no control over, tired of being ashamed for who I am. 31. I’m a 31 year old woman. Yes I still watch cartoons. Yes I still enjoy the occasional bag of hot chips. But I’m also a grown ass woman. A business woman. An ambitious and goal driven woman. My worth is not defined by how old I am. My worth is defined by how I’ve used my time. By how I’ve helped those who I could help. By being unconditionally happy, for myself and others. That’s how I face my 31’st year, with a smile, and with a great pair of tits, and with a great new outlook on what getting older is supposed to be.

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