Imperfectly Perfect

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a reality show,
A 25-year-old getting Botox, repeatedly, to erase her laugh lines.
A 25-year-old, terrified of ageing! Really!
In the relentless pursuit of eternal youth,
She'd become plasticine, even smiling required an effort.

In today's era, where Botox and fillers reign,
They cost a fortune and carry many a risk too.
Still, with a few threads here, a few needles there,
Or even going under the knife—it's fine,
As long as the skin is tight,
The face remains sculpted,
People are willing to pay any price.

I ponder this obsession—
Some chase six-packs, fueled by powders and shakes,
While others yearn for an hourglass figure.
The plus-sized are lost in the doldrums,
Panicking with every extra 'X' added to their size.
This is where body-shaming first takes birth,
When we let our self-worth hinge on a mere 'size.'

Each night, I promise myself: Tomorrow, I’ll take that morning walk.
But as dawn breaks, I'm reluctant and falter.
It’s not that I’m lazy or crave more sleep.
I rise at four, to kneel at my altar,
Hands folded in prayer.
My workout gear and shoes lie neatly in a corner,
Mocking my resolve, taunting me with a glare.
I no longer want to hide behind feeble excuses,
Nor feel guilty if I don't exercise.
Why do I have to conform to any norm?
Can’t I savour my Bhatura without worrying about my form?

My husband inquires about my cycling progress,
Reminding me of our pact,
To add a minute each day.
Yet, I've only managed four minutes in fourteen days—what can I say?
Why can't he ask about my writing instead?
Pray, Write, Eat, Sleep—in that order—is my new routine.
It makes me happy, and isn't happiness what we're all seeking?

I look at myself in the mirror.
My laugh lines deepen,
A testament to the joys I’ve lived through.
Thin crow’s feet spread from the corners of my eyes,
Imparting an air of wisdom.
My tilted nose—a story of curvy paths and bumpy roads
Dips down when I laugh,
Yet, it reminds me to stand tall and bold.

Ah, those drooping eyebrows,
Framing the expressions of my soul.
Eyelids, sagging ever so slightly,
Whispering tales of enduring life’s toughest blows.
And let’s not forget my puckered petals—
These lips that chuckle at my own jokes,
And when the weather turns rough,
Have learned to laugh the most.

My belly folds bounce up and down,
Clapping gleefully like a joyous clown.
Every year that goes by adds a few extra inches to my girth,
But where else would I hold all this mirth?
No more looking down upon stretch marks and creaky knees;
They’re reminders of life’s adventures and priceless stories.
The silver in my hair?
It’s my crowning glory,
Pages turned from moments to memories.

I'm a patchwork of imperfections, stitched with care
A quirky, one-of-a-kind, still figuring things out there.
My scars, my flaws, my dents are uniquely mine,
I own them with honour and wear them with pride.