We had friends over for an impromptu play date last weekend, and a friend lamented to me: “He (her husband) was giving me grief over my mom jeans. Look at where my jeans hit.” She held up the hem of her shirt, revealing jeans that hit right at her hip. “Rose, are these mom jeans?”

“Please. I wear jeans that cover my belly button.” Something was also said about telling him to pull his pants up.

“Exactly,” she said. “Does he want to chase a toddler in low-rise jeans?”

I realized, in that moment, what I look like now.

The most frustrating thing my mother ever said to me during my teenage years, those delicate, hormone-fueled years of insecurity and self-doubt, was that confidence, the thing I so desperately sought, would come with age. I hated hearing that. But… she was right.

When I was young — even up through my 20s — I caught myself spending too much time in changing rooms, too much time fidgeting with the hem of my dress, too much time fretting over non-existent bulges that were “unflattering.” Every aspect of my appearance was subject to scrutiny: my hair in profile (too flat), my cuticles (ever ragged), my thighs (why are they so round on top?). It was exhausting.

Fast forward a decade. You know what my mantra is now? Fuck flattering. My God, is it a liberating way to live.

I have no great ( or witticism to insert here, and no funny commentary about letting myself go, “coin slots”, or the sheer lack of care regarding fashion trends these days. Give me 15 minutes and I can whip myself into something presentable, clean, and toddler-chasing ready. That’s about as good as you’re going to get.

Guess you’ll just have to settle for a good conversation.