What are you beautiful!
It's 7am and I'm in Vincent's bed for the first time. I hear her calm, steady breathing that miraculously does not hear the awakening. I try to get out of the bed with as little movement as possible. The mission is to carry out a facelift incognito. It's not that I want to hide my natural beauty from her, but, I admit, I try – subtly – to make her believe that in the early morning I get up like the sun: all gently and luminously (Cf Claude François who sang that we are all "beautiful, beautiful, beautiful as the day).
I went to bed without removing my makeup, hoping to wake up as fresh as the morning dew. Obviously, I have a panda look that would have taken a storm at best or lightning at worst. I hold my breath like I want to escape a Serial Beauty KILLER. I am tiptoeing to get to the bathroom. Phew! Here I am in front of the mirror. Unsurprisingly, I discovered a clownish painting. Mascara can take confusing artistic endeavors. When given carte blanche overnight it can stretch from forehead to chin in furrows across the face without asking your opinion.
Vincent gets up. I rush over the makeup remover and toothpaste at the same time. Hard choice: wash your face or have a peppermint breath? A bitter failure, he has just entered. We don't panic. He looks at me with laughing eyes. I am caught in the act by the Serial Beauty LOVER. He grabs a cotton ball and gently drops my mask. Each of his gestures reveals me and he seems to enjoy the scene.
I dare not make any movements because it seems to me that my face and my body are inspected. I think of my double chin, of the cellulite on my thighs, of my insufficiently muscular arms, of my lock of hair which defies the law of earthly attraction and which prefers to stay planted in the air… It reveals the softness of my skin, the blue of my eyes, the roundness of my shape and the blond of my hair. Obviously, we don't have the same look. His says fatal beauty, mine breathes undermined confidence.
I decipher a message: "What are you beautiful! "
It seems that love influences the balance of well-being. Secretly I denigrate my envelope feeling that I am not up to what is expected of a woman's beauty today. But I think it was social pressure that robbed me of the love of my body. Vincent sees me with benevolent eyes. Maybe I should take off my lenses which seem to negatively change the way I am. I refuse to continue to direct my thoughts to respect the dictates of beauty. To be beautiful without seeking the approval of society is a freedom. Taking responsibility is a right. Respect yourself, a duty.
From now on I declare and declaim love: "What are we beautiful! "