So when my sister asked me at dinner last night how I spent my birthday, I told her all of the truth.

Spectacular breakfast in bed. I mean really. The door burst open and a pile of balloons filled the room. There was a tray with a beautiful hydrangea, and this cupcake…it had candles, it had a sparkler, it had a giant swirly pile of icing, it was elaborate. The boys were singing.  I am so truly blessed.

Then we went to tour the Princess Margaret Home Lottery Grand Prize Showhome to decide if we wanted to buy a ticket.  The best part about having a ticket is daydreaming that you live in the house and knowing that you just might be able to. It is a spectacular house. I mean, any 3.7 million dollar home is going to be. This particular one was not for us. It had a mini hockey rink in the basement – come off it!! I might be the only Canadian, besides my kids, that don’t even know the rules of the game. Plus, the decor was not to my taste. There were these giant gold statues that looked like Oscar’s doing yoga poses. There were so many useless rooms. It totally grossed our younger son out. He is 9. He said “I think we should leave. This is making me SICK”. Sick because of the excess. Sick because this house was the smallest house in a subdivision. Row upon row of 8, 10, 12 thousand square foot homes. (How come there are so many super rich people? Where did they come from? What are they doing for a living?)

We were just in Mexico where we visited a 2 room school house that would have easily fit in master bathroom of this house. Where we met a family of 17 lovely happy people that live together in small apartment without hot water or an indoor toilet. Where our kids finally realized that all the times we have said “you don’t know how lucky you are!!” it was a real thing that we weren’t making up.

We all agreed that this was not the neighbourhood for us and that we are not the kind of family that wants to live in a mansion. We bought a ticket anyways, because, well, charity. We can just sell the house if we win.

Anyways, all if this is totally beside the point of what I am writing about. Because after telling her all that junk, I told her I started a blog and that I did it because I think I am having a midlife crisis, or maybe just a plain old garden variety crisis. Because I there are things I need (or maybe just want) to change and I need the accountability. Because maybe other people are going through it and this will help us all. Because I have things to say and why not say them to the entire world wide web?

Of course my sister demanded to see it right away and to my horror my mother read over her shoulder. Didn’t think that possibility through when I published the post. They both audibly gasped at the same time. I think it was during the part when I say I was doing drugs. My mother peaced out right then and walked away (So, that is a good sign right?) but my sister read on. At the end she said, it is relatable, but I really think you have much more to say. Then she pointed at my left boob and said “that is the bigger one right?”

Right. And also… I do have more to say. But I am going from the outside in with this. It is a bit safer and maybe easier for me to start on the surface and peel back the layers. Not to diminish the surface…there is a lot that starts there. Body image stuff. Self esteem stuff. How we present ourselves to the world. I, like most people, have a lot of insecurities tied to how I look and how I want to look.

Not 20 minutes ago I impulse bought a product that promises (I know it is a lie, but I can’t stop hoping) to diminish the look of my pores. I have ridiculous gaping craterish pores on my face, and have battled acne on and off since puberty. I always kinda worried about these pores of mine and secretly hoped I was the only one who noticed, but 20 years ago I met a tourist in Toronto (who was here from what country in Africa I can’t recall but one where they do not hold back what they are thinking and tell you what they observe in a really benign and non judgy way) and he studied my face for a while and kindly said “you have very large pores”.  So there you have it. I legit have crazy ass pores. What I wish, and what I hope for, is that I can come to a place where I don’t fucking care. Caring about my pores is not knowing how lucky I am. It is living in a beautiful house but wanting to win a sickening mansion, while 17 lovely people are perfectly happy to sleep three to a hammock and go outside to use the toilet.

Look. Do me a favour. Next time you see me please don’t stare at my pores –  or my boobs for that matter. Just gaze over my shoulder or something.