The Paradox of Fading Beauty
I'll always remember when I caught a couple of folks in their mid 20s giving their companion poo for laying down with a 40-year-elderly person. One of them had strolled in on the couple the morning after and copped an eyeful of the lady's uncovered thighs as she rested. God preclude, the lady had noticeable veins and a hint of cellulite on her legs — and that sickened him.
I get it. These fellows were youthful and unpracticed, however the manner in which they scrutinized the lady upset me. As though it was adequate to pass judgment on her as an individual dependent on her age and actual appearance.
**Sound natural?**
I began to close down when they kidded about hanging bosoms, maturing skin, and crow's feet.
However, the discussion remained with me.
Obviously, my inner reaction was to evaluate myself. I began to feel more lacking about my own body — my bosoms, face, figure, and thighs, and I contemplated whether my sweetheart saw comparable shortcomings.
I was 21 years of age.
It was the same old thing, however. Simply more layering on top of what I had effectively been presented to consistently. We as a whole are. Consistently, films, magazines, and promotions show us that we aren't sufficiently excellent, slender enough, brilliant enough, or adequately active.
By 21, I had effectively been destroyed by the impractical media-driven picture of the best lady, and that was before the web brought about the online media sex-fairy. If deliberately, pretty much every person I knew appeared to maintain that equivalent impression of excellence — the faultless face, amazing figure, etc.
Take any appealing lady. You probably won't see it, however she has spent a decent part of her life grappling with an interior relationship with magnificence. Regularly, it's anything but a dangerous round of mental fighting that outcomes in dietary issues, misery, and other medical issues.
She manages judgment, correlation, and sexism every day. She's hammered with the body-lovely lady every step of the way and programmed into accepting she is less commendable if her face doesn't display amazing evenness or her body is racking such a large number of bends. Never entirely feeling sufficient except if she takes after a milder, more refined Kim Kardashian look.
Each lady explores an existence of engaging herself somewhat on account of the incomprehensible excellence norms we've made. She faces a slow and painful demise to her confidence and self-esteem, and as she ages and her young excellence starts to blur, it can possibly devour her.
**Creator Kathy Lette explains:**
"Age to ladies is the thing that Kryptonite is to Superman. Inside each more seasoned lady is a more youthful lady shouting, 'Get me the hellfire outta here.'"
I'm currently in my 40s. I love being here. I may not be just about as youthful as I used to be, however I have significantly more appreciation for the experience of living, getting the hang of, feeling, and cherishing.
The years rejuvenate a liberating quality.
You've done time and procured your fight scars. You know what your identity is and acknowledge yourself that piece more. You've figured out how to control your feelings, acknowledge you don't know it all, and ideally become more adaptable with life and individuals. You start to see through the excellence discernment horse crap and reject its unfavorable impacts on your more youthful self.
All things considered, the change from the rich, unmistakably sexual lady she had been to the still sexual yet progressively undetectable lady she feels society and men particularly now see her can be difficult for a lady.
It's a mystery of blurring excellence.
The Paradox
A mystery joins conflicting highlights or characteristics. All things considered, the shame of blurring magnificence is without a doubt a special puzzle each alluring lady must one day address and deal with.
Young ladies can become accustomed to getting a ton of consideration.
She's utilized to the world respecting her grin, men falling at feet, and openings arriving in her lap. So she knows about what she means for individuals and how her childhood eclipses her life.
Somebody more established likely once said, "Appreciate it while it keeps going, darling."
That appeared to be far away.
She has the best face and body, until further notice. In any case, the wellspring of youth isn't never-ending.
We get more seasoned.
We develop silver hair, lose bone thickness and flexibility in our skin as it becomes more slender. Our bosoms start to react to gravity. We feel squeaks in our bodies where we didn't already. We get up one morning and notice further crow's feet shadowing our eyes.
That is the point at which a few of us may scramble to get a progression of hostile to wrinkle infusions to ease ourselves through the troublesome change.
Since we realize that in the event that you take a gathering of arbitrary ladies in their 30s and a gathering of irregular ladies in their 40s or 50s and ask a moderately aged man which gathering is all the more physically alluring to him, he'll say, "For what reason would you say you are inquiring? Isn't it self-evident?"
We hear the commotion revealing to us that we don't have anything a greater amount of significant worth to bring to the table society or men on the grounds that the spidery veins appearing on our thighs means that we've passed our prime.
It is diverse for developed matured men. They are not as undetectable. They actually hold the reins of force when choosing who we see projected back at us through media.
That is to say, the moment a lady of a specific age sticks her head over the umbrella, shame downpours down on her. In her 6th decade, Madonna pulled in especially adverse fire for the wrongdoing of setting out to think she is as yet hot — and more awful, parading it freely.
It's the intangibility marvel.
Yet, that is the reason getting more seasoned unnerves the lovely specifically.
They will have quite a lot more to lose in the event that they've gotten tied up with the unreasonable principles of the magnificence business and trusted in men with shallow perspectives of ladies, nailing her self-esteem more to her external appearance than the worth of her internal substance.
The Invisibility Phenomenon
The torment of feeling ugly comes from the narratives we inform ourselves regarding those we consider lovely. At the point when we get tied up with the excellence fixation culture and the meaning of what makes for an ideal lady media organizations keep on forcing on us.
We can transform it by —
Dismissing the incomprehensible media-driven norms mentioning to us what's wonderful, the distorted human-made daydream of magnificence that advances negative mental self portrait.
Quit developing our value dependent on our external appearance.
Zeroing in rather on the magnificence of our inward world and association with life-power energy.
Widening our idea of what excellent is to envelop the appeal, deep scars, and inward shrewdness of getting more established.
Rehumanizing excellent ladies as less lucky, comparably defective, and not separated from most of us.
Understanding that genuine magnificence is the thing that transmits from the inside.
Yet, I figure the most ideal way a lady can conquer the mystery of blurring magnificence is to acknowledge that she must eventually bow to time or the way toward maturing. And keeping in mind that that implies change, it positively doesn't diminish her worth or make her any to a lesser extent a full-bodied, delightfully effortless lady.
**Lady.**
The best way we can invalidate the imperceptibility rubbish is to be forthright and out there as ladies, gladly and uproariously announcing that we might be maturing, however we're still here.
What's more, we're not going anyplace soon.
My Reminders from Early Winter Evenings
We did not care about the early evenings, neither the early evenings, nor the early snow, nor the fusses on the faces of our elders. we would have thought. When we woke up in the morning, neither our window nor our door would be left to open. That first snow in front of the window would be enchanting. The sun-illuminated speckles would shine brightly like a gem, or our eyes looking at it in astonishment, would they be less bright?
Your wife all the hard work for the elders. Of course, her whole reign was in us minors. We would be eager to do work that exceeds our height among the snow that exceeds our height.We used to shovel snow with shovels that we could not understand from where we found it. We would hardly hit a path from the door of our house to the barn road.
Within a few days the resistance of the abdomen would be broken. It could not stand the attraction of the sunlight and it would relax. When the height was below our height, the sovereignty would pass to us. A plastic bag on her hand would find the steepest slope of the neighborhood in one breath. I do not know what else there is the pleasure of skiing on those steep slopes. The most dangerous part of this business is that our mother. If we found a stove edge and dried our clothes before our mother saw it, would it be good for us?
The plump and tiny hands surrounding the stove would escape the stiffness at the last minute. As the warmed hands relaxed, the pain would be read from our faces. Perhaps such anguish would be felt when a dead body was given life, the anguish he inflicted on us. We couldn't stop loving him.
**What beautiful memories the snow would collect for us.**
Would it be less beautiful at night in those snowy days? The steam of boiling lime in my mother's blue-zinc kettle would circulate the room free. Children clustered around the stove. Tiny hands peeling the shells, smiling faces. Conversations that go on with tea, bitter and sweet memories told, stories, tales. Free spirits who are not captive to the computer, to the phone. And in the shadow of all this, a family's knitting together, now it is so distant those nights, those winters. The flames lit up on the ceiling in those nights, the conversations going on around the stoves, the warm human hearts touching each other in the winters.
I understood this yesterday, how far away those winters are from me now. I realized that yesterday while looking at the bleak snow from my window. In fact, there was hope in me first. It was going to be the first wife of the year, and I had been longing for her for a long time.
Although not as beautiful as Nazım's, I wrote poems to him. I had taken off my white winter sweater with pink flowers on the sleeves, my blue scarf, and my blue gloves. I was going to be decorated and prepared for him. I would greet him with white and blue. It was going to fall on me like a dream, it would hug me, I would lie down on the white arms, and I was going to read my poem to him.
But it seemed so unhappy.
I have never felt that distant from myself. It was obviously not permanent this time. I realized that when I touched my hands. Her hands were melting when they touched my hands. Whereas the touches were so small, why was I cold?
I wanted it to come like it was in my childhood. I wanted him to warm me up and stay with me for a long time, however, he was coming and going like a stranger.
Why has the face of everything changed? What I feel, my loved ones, the seasons. It changes even more, I'm afraid. One day, if I too get lost in those memories, the face of me and everything, without getting more dirty and old.
***If they take me to their clean and happy world while the snow goes away ... If everywhere were white, white ...***
Don't light the lamp, let go
a yellow human head
do not fall out of the window.
It's snowing
to the dark.
It's snowing
and I remember.
Snow…
It went out like a blown candle
huge lights ..
And the city
remained like a blind person
under the snow.
Don't light the lamp, let it go!
Your memories that enter the heart like a knife
I understand that they are mute.
It's snowing
and i remember
Talking About My Road of Adolescence and Feelings
While writing, I avoid being fake, lying to you, and pretending to be someone I am not, and I am so self-defenseless against the world ...
"You are not what I am attached to without hesitation, to write. I do not think of you at all while writing. Likewise, I am not the one to whom you are attached.
I imagine that colors are prudent, maybe the opposite of words ...
While it is the subject of thousands of equations that I have built inside, that constant coefficient is of course never related to my age or my identity number, and it is almost impossible to express what I am about.
An endless enthusiasm grows and ultimately my words take wing.
My student years in which I worked in numerical terms and I was compelled to choose a profession that is directly proportional after receiving a numerical education.
Can you look at the expression in the sentence? It is both a profession I chose and, to put it briefly, that I am compulsory, presented to me from the day I was born.
I have given up my life and my happiness and freedom in order to gain this awareness for a lifetime, **both by choice and obligation**.
**Being a lonely child and then an adult.**
In an isolated society, the importance given to social relations, and no matter how hard I try in an individual sense, beyond being a respectable individual to which I whistle, I sometimes come across with a rebellious wind.
While playing with the settings of my mind and I am constantly investing in my soul and mind, of course it is an inner journey that I could not even realize to keep my mental health hidden, and unfortunately I have transferred this to time and day only in the last eight years.
**It's like a transport vehicle:**
While my mind was hidden in my locomotive and freight wagons, my emotions, of course, my thoughts, my horse head and I danced with my emotions and logic that I restrain, and I finally came to the point of exploding.
A lifetime while it is a process.
While I was a subset of the essence of about ten years, my existence, of course, wasted a lifetime from the mistake I made in choosing a profession.
Since yesterday…
More precisely, while I have had an endless desire to tell myself for as long as I can remember, so while I want to touch whoever is outside of me, I have drowned everybody in front of me in detail as if it was not enough to let them read inside.
Especially when I was ten years old when I was the only gun at home, I was astonished that I had a brother. I took my younger brother who was involved like a divan.
With the luxury of being a live toy, my grandmother, who was the elder of the house who lost my first friend and passed on to eternity, and while the first ten years of my life were entrusted to him, then the toy and the live baby who took the head of the train that made a hooker.
Of course, I can never deny my school life because it is the only place in the house where my creativity ends, even the first and last place.
My feelings when I am not abandoned.
Maybe a homework that was smashed.
And here is my journey, my inner voice, which takes the helm with a rapid flow and tolerance, and everything I share with the maintenance of my favorite class and schoolmates, hold my pen, my feelings and the happiness of being a friend, while a lifetime does not change for anything.
There are also those that are in the nature of a warning. It turns out that my first friend in primary school took shelter under the wings of a girl who was transferred to the classroom and this was my first time when I was my emotions.
After my stolen friend, I set out again, and of course my love for the human beings was on my way without slowing down, and I was stuck halfway by my friends.
**So far, everything is fine too ...**
However, when I talk about the road to adolescence, my point of view, which explores the fact that being a student is a profession, may not yet be able to realize that I am different from everyone else.
Words are always in my inner pocket and always on my collar, while numerical data and that chaos that has never been explained.
While the importance he attaches to words, on the other hand, my desire to make my analytical intelligence workable with a directly proportional profession, more precisely, my family and of course, breaking my chains while I was guiding me to a popular profession ...
What a lifetime I have engaged in, after all, growing up in someone's eyes actually magnifies my enthusiasm, or rather that this enthusiasm leads me to different expansions.
I stipulate myself both in my social life, in my private life and professionally:
Achievement-oriented.
Whatever it means to be successful is in the eyes of people.
Of course, to be accepted, to preserve my dignity and to be a beloved team member, it is as if I was an archaeologist doing excavations in a special team, but actually uncovering the excavations inside me and I could not realize that I was constantly breaking through.
Of course, an opening that is not important at all in the professional sense, I have embellished my professional life with emotions, whatever the relevance is.
**To obtain reasonable consent.**
What I approve is under the title of everyone and here is everyone, all my colleagues I trust and even strangers I have met, sometimes before an interview, or even during shopping, people whom I do not know at all, under the title of foreigners, of course, when I treat everyone equally.
Everyone who is equal, but for the sake of which I cannot see the same response from everyone, I have changed my working environment dozens of times, but an office or a plaza is where I work, since it is my search for people and my desire to get approval.
Of course, my inner world that I hit the wall many times and has no pattern with my profession. I will travel with my mind and get the approval of everyone I come across, and it is my duty as a numerical perspective, but I can never achieve emotional efficiency.
This enthusiasm in the literary world is of course the continuation of yesterday and even the treat, because I am the writer and the narrator, I desperately list my inner voice in the lines and I write without getting offended, what tells me is actually a regular of a life where telling me is always a contributor to me, and I go to the ring with my pen and the responsibility of every sentence I write. I bought it because I strive with all my heart to make it a remarkable journey in the name of literature.
**One step further:**
Rather than striving, my enthusiasm has not subsided and I let it cascade like a waterfall.
Who am I writing?
Of course, he didn't have many friends during his childhood.
My name, which is embellished with adjectives that I have come across for a lifetime beyond who I am while writing, of course, is that I struggle to be human in every sense and match it with love.
Even simple ordinary work gains value and beauty when even a housework is done lovingly, and a constant desire for acceptance in man, because a well dug with love, even with a needle, but with love.
In the name of the peace that the narration will give peace of mind.
And whenever I find myself incompetent - whatever the subject is - a great disappointment is the anxiety that captivates me and the anxiety of resumption that my painful aches touches my back, and the desire to hesitate and take myself to the next point unless I am satisfied that I start again and end my anxiety in my story.
While the dialogue I have with the reader and the fact that I feel close to the reader is also the only way to come to an agreement with myself.
While I had experienced this feeling only in the years when I was a student and a teacher, and the path to interaction in human relations, but could not make it real in every field, after all, while sharing the ace-base relationship that occurs in social environments and an environment of competition with the people you are in the same position.
Protractor of your life?
Or should I say pain meter?
After all, those different angles and expansions in human relations impose separate pains on people.
While the mind and emotions must be in a showdown and one of them is necessarily one step ahead of the other, so literature has one side of life, more precisely both sides of the coin, in the phenomenon called literature.
The emotional aspect of the job, of course, that you are yourself.
And you set yourself a goal: of course you put an end to all your anxieties for a while, with a logical effort in the transfer of emotions, that you shape the pen and words, and here are the only real internalized words that are sharp at both ends, and with the collaboration of the pen, of course, if it is as peaceful as you write and as clear as you tell, it is wavy. sea…
Moreover, the sense of awareness that I gained from summer to summer that I remember my childhood more clearly lately and when I first perceive myself when I was the first age to remember, my state of about four years old is so close to me that I also feel the whole world close to myself, and even when it is hidden in me, that gigantic world is just as much. the sense of infinity that I have matched.
This spiritual bond that I have established with the reader is just as much as I can get more and more in my struggle with myself, as well as life brings new troubles, you are unwittingly modifying it in some way.
Touching their hearts as someone who only reads and writes now, the reader has more peace and happiness than reading in this context, and there are many more people and what will exist, just as my enthusiasm has spread to people and words, and I consider all my feelings to be connected with dreams. which is an appetizer to my story and poetry.
My material is, of course, that I end the silence of the inner voice, so that I sometimes ignore and sometimes inaudible in contact with the external voice, so I put my whole heart in order to be one step beyond the meaning of the narrative motive hidden in me.
"Writing for me the only and best way to present my heart to you. I do this at all risks, including you. Because I love you and our friendship holds the promise of eternity.
@margitpolo
