These are the types of shameless selfies I’d upload to Facebook to trick Rich into loving me. Often taglined with things like, ‘Mila’s quite the photographer! Hahaha!’ or something equally not true. I was fooling exactly no one, because in this dimension I am not ‘come hither’ at rest. I’m more like ‘I think I have shit on my hands, somebody please get me a wipee.’
It never worked. Not a picture of me at the beach, at a party, being an accidental MILF (if you happen to Facebook stalk, you’ll see the ones I mean. I look like a porn star and my child looks like she should be in the hospital), on a date with another guy…it was futility at its finest.
This–THIS–is what he fell in love with…
This is me sleeping post-breastfeeding. I still don’t fit into anything smaller than an XXL and my veiny breast is fully exposed, along with its dinnerplate-sized nipple. It is so heinous, I can’t look at it for more than three seconds for fear that reality will close in on itself and I’ll be appropriated by a traveling circus of postpartum maniacs.
In the vein (please excuse me for using that word twice) of being an open book–and because anyone who can count above two has probably already figured it out–let me openly congratulate this man on being a champion insta-dad. A loving partner to a woman with rapidly failing beauty, and a devoted father to her two angels. I love him for it, and every morning–when I stumble out of my cabernet coma to greet myself in the bathroom mirror–I’m like, what the f*ck is wrong with this dude? I could’ve saved a lot of time and iPhone data by gaining 50lbs and not washing my face.
So the moral is: stop taking selfies and go get your hands dirty. Nobody believes you’re that sexy in real life.