When getting back on the horse is intimidating

The depression hit in September.  It took me a long time to find an equilibrium that worked somewhat for me, and yet I still felt myself struggling to keep all the balls in the air and fulfill all of my (largely self-imposed) "shoulds" while the anti-depressants began to work.  In December, I decided to cut myself some slack and take a damned break already: there was no pressure or expectations to do anymore than I felt comfortable and capable of doing - this included cutting out my workouts entirely.

I didn't really suffer as much as I thought I would: I continued to lose a small amount of weight until the week of Christmas when I threw all rational thought caution to the wind and stopped tracking what I was eating.  I managed to gain six pounds in 1-2 weeks.  Oh, and to add insult to injury, the lack of exercise caused me to balloon up 9" overall.  Yeah.  Just goes to show what a freaking difference even a small amount of exercise can make.

I started January with the best of intentions, fully on board with getting back to it fitness-wise.  Unfortunately, I was having trouble with my back, and it kind of over-shadowed everything.  I had another rather crappy day near the end of January that brought about some realizations, and somehow that "take it easy" approach somewhere along the line managed to translate into "don't do ANY exercise AT ALL and completely, conveniently forget about being active."

So here I am looking down the barrel of a new month, still experiencing pain in my back, shoulders, and neck, and feeling fat and schlumpy.  With Chebbar starting school next week, we've planned to walk when I get home from work (which will be awesome: walking is my favourite form of exercise); he wants to start this week (I was told by both the physiotherapist(quack) and my chiropractor that walking would be the best exercise to get my back working "normally").

I'm excited, yet a little... scared? nervous? intimidated?  Chebbar has goals of walking seven days a week: I'm worried I'll have a down day and not want to get off the couch, thereby "letting him down."  (Or worse, that he'll try to... not bully, but "motivate" me to get up and moving.)  I worry about not being able to keep up.  (Or worse, not WANTING to keep up, even though I *know* I can handle a 2k walk every day.) It's making me anxious about starting at all, which is totally silly because I NEED to start - I WANT to start.  We haven't even started yet, and I'm already putting pressure on myself and catastrophizing, assuming I'll fail.  It's all kinds of awesome.  *eye roll*

I've been reading a lot lately the mindset that sometimes you just have to get up and DO it: no whining, no belly-aching, no waiting, no excuse-making.  I'm worried I'll fail again, much like I felt I did in December, in January, in February, but I know I need to get moving again.   I'm scared, but I'm going to try.

Things That Can Just F*ck Right Off #59

#59:  That one teeny, tiny MOLDY grape that buries itself in amongst the other seemingly healthy-looking grapes and taints the WHOLE BUNCH.




Explanation.

Wordless Wednesday

*ZOMGASP!*  Words!  On a "Wordless Wednesday" post?!?  

I hope no one's head pops off his or her neck.  I decided to combine @piperoflove's excellent idea that I stole copied emulated on Saturday with the whole Wordless Wednesday thing.  So, Wednesdays will likely be a few of my favourite Instagram shots from the previous week.  Just to, y'know, EXPLAIN how I DARE use words!!1!one!  ;)

Hands off!

I've come to realize/accept that I have an... issue with picking at my skin.  The slightest little raised bump is invitation for my fingernails to do their worst.  I find myself unable to stop until that raised bit is gone, the skin is "smooth," and I'm often left bleeding.  Of course, this turns into a scab, which means unsmooth skin, which means more picking, lather, rinse, and repeat.

I used to have gorgeously clear skin - I was that asshole in high school that might get the odd PMS-zit once a month.  My skin was honestly the only thing I was complimented on, so to go from that to this is hard (I took pictures, but I seem to have deleted them... whoops!).  I know it makes me vain, but vain girl is vain.  (And if this is sounding familiar, I've written about it before.)

I currently have a ton of teeny, tiny skin-coloured bumps (clogged pores?) all over my chin (mostly on either side of my mouth).  They LOOK poppable, so I'll squeeze them.  Sometimes it works and that particular bump dies down and goes away.  Sometimes it doesn't, and I'll either end up with a scab in its place, or worse, I'll force the clog deeper down and it will morph into an under-the-skin zit.  Yeah.  You'd think I'd learn, right?  Naaaaaaaah.

I decided yesterday I'd make an effort to keep my hands off my face: hands-off = no picking.  However, I had NO CLUE how often I touch my damned face.  I did great until the afternoon and then all bets were off.  And today?  Fugeddaboutit.  It's like a compulsion: as I'm looking in the mirror, bemoaning the state of my skin, an offender will catch my eye and it's like I'm powerless against picking at it (again) EVEN AS I'M ALL "AH MAH GAWD! MAH SKIN IS GROSSSSS!"  Dipshit.

I bought a Clarisonic brush before Christmas, but haven't seen the miracle results so many people seem to have.  I paid $70 for a Philosophy exfoliant peel per my doctor's suggestion (she didn't suggest Philosophy itself, just a chemical peel).  I've used a mud mask every three days.  I tried the Oil Cleansing Method, but I didn't tinker with the oil ratios, so that might be why it didn't seem to work for me.  I tried Proactiv years ago, but it's too harsh for my stupid skin (that being said, I'm *still* tempted to try it again - I'm THAT desperate).

Honestly, I have a feeling I'm throwing too much at my face too fast.  As frustrating as it is and as hard as it is to look at my face in the mirror, I'm going back to basics: Cetaphil cleanser morning and night followed by a LIGHT application of Cetaphil moisturizer.

I hate hating my skin, my face, my appearance.  I hate being ashamed of leaving the house.  I hate not knowing what to do or how to fix the problem.  Blarg.

ETA:  Picture of skin DOOM...

I'm a mental giant (midget? maybe I'm a mental midget: I *am* short)

 Last week I was trying to decide what to do about the whole filtering/limited facebook profile thing.  After some thinking and weighing the opinions of all who chimed in here and twitter, I decided that Uncle Strangedude would be getting filtered (if not removed completely) and that the aunt would be added as a friend at full-access level: as I said on Thursday, my facebook profile is just as much a representation of who I am as my blog and twitter account are - I won't hide or apologize for who I am.  I felt good about that decision.

In the past, I've also struggled with if I should "come out" blog-wise to family and non-bloggy/twitter friends.  I've changed my twitter name so I could feel comfortable using my *own* picture, then changed it back when I accidentally mentioned twitter on my personal facebook account.  While small (and very, very unlikely to be spotted by anyone from outside of Cyberia (thanks to Jett Superior for that most excellent term)), I made the choice to change my twitter handle back to Chibi Jeebs while keeping *my* face up.  Not long after that, I made the decision to share the link to my blog with a few very select (and highly trusted) friends that I met through a message board 100 years ago.

Then I did it AGAIN.

On Saturday, I linked my Instagram pictures to post to *my* facebook account (instead of saving and reposting) because I'm lazy efficient that way.

HOWEVAH.

Dumbass that I am, I didn't realize that it would post my pictures all "CHIBI JEEBS IS USING INSTAGRAM!!1!one!" (And yes, it DID feel like it appeared THAT! BIG!) all over my profile.  After discovering it an hour after it went live, I gasped and deleted it as fast as I could.  I rushed to Stat Counter to see if any damage had been done: no, thank Ceiling Cat.  


Hooray!  :D  Or not.  D:

You see, another FIVE hours later, I was on my actual profile page - as opposed to the !@#$ing newsfeed I was on earlier - and saw "CHIBI JEEBS IS USING INSTAGRAM!!1!one!" in THREEEEE different places.  Yes, I deleted the posts from MY newsfeed (read: not everyone else's!), but not my !@#$ing profile.

So, "CHIBI JEEBS IS USING INSTAGRAM!!1!one!" sat there in all it's traitorous, big-mouthed, stupid-ass glory for SIX HOURS.

Yeah.  See?  MENTAL MIDGET-GIANT.  I've been too scared to look at Stat Counter again, but have kind of, sort of, allllmost made peace with inadvertently outing myself: once again, this is ME - if anyone doesn't like it, well, that's just too damned bad.

Because I'm pretty freaking awesome (if a little slow).

Totally stealing @piperoflove's idea...

...and posting my favourite Instagram pics of the week (because I am in l.o.v.e. with this app - seriously).

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

❤  That is all.  ❤

Pictures found on tumblr.

To filter or not to filter: that is the question

Today, I posted a link on my facebook profile that generated some... conversation.  The trouble is that the conversation it generated saw a... different family member insult a friend (and likely would've insulted every other American friend of mine with his insensitive and ethnocentric comments).  After apologizing to her, I commented warning him to knock off the name calling or I'd yank the whole post.

He retorted that he wasn't calling names.  Yet.

Needless to say, the post was deleted.  I was absolutely mortified that a) someone on my friend list offended a friend and b) that this is someone who shares my last name.  This isn't the first time I've regretted accepting the friend request from a man I hardly knew the last time I saw him twenty years ago.  This also isn't the first time I've wished I had the presence of mind to have a limited profile set up and ready to go (and that I was smart enough to add him to that instead of granting full-access).

And then, because I think Suckerberg (and no, that's not a typo) is trying to get me to just leave facebook forever, I got a friend request from another family member (although completely unrelated to Uncle Cuckoo).  This is another family member that I'm not particularly close to, partially due to our differing beliefs.  Don't get me wrong: she's a lovely woman.  However, my facebook profile is just like my blog and my twitter account: a representation of me and my humour and my potty mouth and my opinionated ways.

Per usual, I took to twitter and was wisely advised to set up a limited profile ASAP.  It sounded like an excellent idea.

However, as I drove home listening to my new anthem (F*ckin' Perfect by Pink - listen NOW please), it struck me: why should I censor who I am?  If she doesn't like what she sees, she can avoid it fairly simply - she can hide my posts so they don't appear in her news feed and just avoid my profile page.  Barring that, she could remove me from her friend list entirely.  At the same time, though, the thought crossed my mind that I'm (generally) a polite person (shut up) who respects her: I wouldn't curse like a sailor if I were at her dinner table (or if she were at mine, for that matter - I *do* try to exercise a little bit of decorum at times).

I'm torn.  Do I set up a limited profile before I accept her friend request so she can't see the more *ahem* colourful things I post?  Or do I let my off-colour freak flag fly and let her decide if she dislikes it enough to do something about it?  Or do I do the other thing that was suggested and just ignore the friend request - let it hang?

And don't worry: Uncle Cuckoo's still getting a first-class ticket to Limited Land.

Blogging out the bitch

I am a salaried employee.  This means that sick time, appointments with my doctor, etc. are covered - I'm not penalized wages for leaving an hour early to go to the dentist.  In relation to the health issues I've been experiencing over the past 16 months, I've had a LOT of missed time - enough that I try to make sure I don't schedule appointments too close together, and that every single time I *do* have to ask for more time off, I'm nervous as hell: I do NOT want them to think I'm taking advantage.  I try to schedule my appointments as close to the end of the day as possible so as to miss the least amount of work.  As well, I have offered NUMEROUS times to take half/whole holiday days to cover appointments, only to be told that I shouldn't be "silly": they "know" that I work through my lunches every day (which I do, sort of: I will take half an hour to eat my lunch and read my book, but I'm still responding to emails, taking phone calls, answering questions, etc.), so it "evens out."  

Last October, I returned from a week of holidays to an unsolicited raise.  A week later, I was told there was a "problem" (cue MAJOR freaking out), only to discover that it was only a matter of mileage - they wanted me to eat the (minuscule) cost of, say, going to the post office ($1.07) in exchange for the (GENEROUS) raise.  Of course, they offered the caveat that, if I was making more/lengthy trips, we would revisit the mileage claims.  No problem.

Today Boss #3 asked me to drop a set of plans off with a subcontractor on my way home from work (normally, either the subs pick up their own plans from our office, from the job site, or we courier them out, so while definitely a one-off, this is still a departure from the status quo).  Now, this business is on my way - sort of.  I'll have to detour off the highway by about 5km to get there, then double back to get back on the highway, likely taking 20-30 minutes because of the time of day.  I told him it was no problem, that I'd just leave 15 minutes early or so.  He said no, that it's on my way home, and it will "cover all those afternoons [I've] ducked out early."

*blinkblinkblink*  Pardon me?  O_O

I was speechless.  I waited until I had finished my lunch and he finished a phone call (mostly so I could calm down) before going to ask for clarification.  At my old job - and with previous errands I've run for THIS one! - if I was running an errand for work, it was either done during business hours, or I left early to do it: it wasn't done on MY time (and for the record, I was still salaried and paid for my mileage, even if I did leave early).  I asked him if there was an issue with the time I've had to take off; he said no.  I reminded him that I've offered to take holiday time to cover my appointments and that he's always told me not to because I work through lunch; he acknowledged that.  He then went on to say something about how HE thinks of me as a "part of this company," but if *I* want to start keeping track of every single minute I'm not here and bill/be paid accordingly, I just have to let them know.

I'm feeling taken advantage of AND manipulated.  And don't get me started on how Boss #1 was just eavesdropping on a phone call of mine and HOLLERED down the stairs to tell me how to do my job.  *head desk*

A *happy* post

Oh, yes folks.  I know it's been awhile, but I had an excellent weekend which capped off a not-bad week, so I thought I'd share in easy to skim read bullet points.  Because who doesn't love a good bullet (point)?

• I had to go for my crown lengthening on Wednesday (boo!), but Chebbar stayed home from work to take me (yay!) since I'm a big chicken.  When we got there, we found out the dentist had been late and all the appointments had been pushed back and they weren't DOING the !@#$ing crown lengthening (boo! because I just wanted it done and over with).  So, we got to spend the day together.  :)  (A big thanks to @jonniker for giving me a heads-up as to what I was in for, too - totally helped!)
• I worked from home the rest of the day which was cool: I think I got more done than I would have at work (issuing contracts).
• Thursday I *did* get the crown lengthening (boo/yay), but I rewarded myself with the Mumford & Sons CD (finally) (yes, CD: shut it - I *like* supporting the artists after *ahem* borrowing the music first... ).
• Friday I met Chebbar at Costco and we got half of our shopping done, then came home for an easy dinner.
• Saturday we left town to go for an early Valentine's Day dinner.  Dinner was AMAZING - best restaurant meal we've had in a long, long time.  Before dinner, we'd gone to the mall where Chebbar (finally) found some new shoes and I got a big-ass container of coconut body butter from The Body Shop (smells like summer).
• I finally played with my OPI Black Shatter and it was awesome.
• Sunday afternoon we went to Beth's for Theo's birthday and had a good visit with that half of the family.  Sunday night the other half of the family surprised Mom with Birthday Redux via ice cream cake - she was surprised and happy (although *did* say something about wishing she'd known - she would have showered...  LOL).
• And today I got home to a smooshy, mushy card from my guy who was in the kitchen prepping for dinner.  I'm a lucky girl.  :)

25 Things I Get All Double-Rainbow Over (a la @schmutzie)

1. Hearing a really great song at the right time
2. A new book
3. Chocolate
4. Sunshine
5. A good night's sleep
6. Walks by the river
7. Going for a long, aimless drive
8. Bubble baths
9. Fresh flowers
10. Those "I love you, man!" moments
11. The support of my amazing friends
12. Puppies
13. New tattoos 
14. Writing (as in pen-and-paper)
15. Nailing a big task at work
16. Having my efficiency praised
17. Good hair/body/brain days
18. Taking a really cool picture
19. New (successful) recipes
20. Sales
21. Working out
22. Connecting
23. Love
24. New shoes
25. Chebbar  <3

Totally stole this from Schmutzie cuz she's awesome.  Play along and link up on her blog!

I'm kinda okay

In an effort to balance Friday's rather serious post (although, after all of the comments, emails, tweets, and DMs, it would seem that it needed to be said: I found out that I'm not the only one who feels this way, and hopefully others realized the same), I thought I'd post a list of things I like about myself that I wrote a week ago (I probably should have reread this list instead of writing Friday's post, but I digress).  Now, if you know me in the slightest, you'll know that this post is even harder for me to share - leaves me feeling far more vulnerable and exposed  - than Friday's did.  Please be gentle with me.  :)

• my curls
• the natural "streaks" in my hair
• my green eyes
• how my lashes look when all mascara'd up
• my smile
• my straight (thanks, Dr. Lock!), white teeth
• my ears
• how easily my cheeks flush
• my tattoos
• my hands - my fingers/nail shape remind me of my great grandmother
• the WHITE hairs on my head like Great Grandma
• my freckles
• my rack (heh)
• my waist
• my arms that like to hug
• my legs that keep me going
• painted toes
• my empathy
• my ability to smile/laugh easily
• my love for my family and friends
• the ability and willingness to offer love and support unselfishly
• my excitability
• my dorkiness
• my love of reading
• my love of music
• appreciation for beauty
• my sense of humour
• fierce protectiveness
• willingness to lend a hand and help
• my new-found ability to go with the flow (mostly)
• my stubbornness
• my determination to stick to my morals, ethics, and principles
• my understanding
• that I'm easily content with the simple things in life - what I have is good enough
• my ability to feel and love
• my propensity for forgiveness (mostly)
• knowing when to cut my losses
• knowing when to protect myself and my heart (mostly)
• my integrity
• my sticktoitiveness 

And now that I've either bored you to death or made you gag (yeah, still working on cutting out the self-deprecating humour... ) I'm totally going to be that asshole who tells you this type of a list does help, and that if *I* can do it, anyone can.  (The more you write, the easier it gets to move away from the surface stuff like looks.)

If you identified with my last post all, give this a shot.  You may be surprised.  Or, tell me just ONE THING you like about yourself in the comments.  :)

This is not beautiful

Beautiful is a word used to describe sparkling blue or soulful brown eyes.

Beautiful is a word used to describe silky, smooth, golden blond or chocolate brown hair.

Beautiful is a word used to describe perfect complexions.

Beautiful is a word used to describe smiles that don't falter.

Beautiful is a word used to describe confidence that doesn't waver.

Beautiful is a word used to describe slim and toned bodies.





Beautiful is not a word used to describe green eyes.

Beautiful is not a word used to describe crazily curled, frizzy mousy-brown hair.

Beautiful is not a word used to describe blemishes and blackheads.

Beautiful is not a word used to describe smiles forced by uncertainty.

Beautiful is not a word used to describe crippling self-doubt.

Beautiful is not a word used to describe double chins, bingo wings, Buddha bellies, thunder thighs, junk in the trunk.


As you lay entwined in the arms of the man who loves you, that voice starts: Why you?  He could have someone so much better than you - prettier, thinner, smarter, more self-assured, less emotional.  Are you really good enough?  And yet, it's like he instinctually knows the venom flooding your brain as he raises his hand in that secret gesture that signifies "I love you," searching to meet your hand.

Even though he's told you - often enough that he very rightly should be tired of repeating himself - that he loves you just the way you are and will love you no matter what, there's a part of you that just can't bring yourself to accept the hope that goes along with believing his words.

He gets upset when he hears you cut yourself down in your self-deprecating manor.  The disparaging cracks are a defence mechanism: if you insult yourself first, no one else will be able to.  He's trapped you by asking if you trust his opinion, his judgement; when you invariably reply that of course you do, he drops a logic bomb in your lap: then why don't you trust his opinion, his judgement of you?

He tells you that you're beautiful, using terms like "smokin' hot."  You simultaneously realize that this is the first time in your 32 years that you've heard yourself described like this, and that you don't believe the compliments, thinking that he says them out of some sense of obligation.  After all, your own mother didn't refer to you as a "pretty girl" until you were 27-years old.  And yes, hearing her say that was such a shock, you remember the exact moment she said it, right down to what you were wearing.

You've always been fairly secure in your intelligence and ability to do things like get good grades and remain on the honour roll: you've been praised for those things for as long as you can remember.  But when it comes to that shallow qualifier - your looks - you're completely unsure.  Oblivious, even.  You did not grow up hearing positive, complimentary things about your looks - not because you were ugly, but because beauty wasn't deemed a characteristic important enough to merit flattery; instead, you were called a moose and told that she wouldn't help you fix your bangs on picture day lest she touch your "zitty nose."

You read books.  You watch videos.  You find it blessedly easy to see the beauty in everyone around you.  Except, of course, yourself.

You have days - moments - where you feel good and confident, liking the face that gazes back at you in the mirror.  But those moments are fleeting.  In the very next second, you can find yourself passing a mirror and muttering about a disgusting fat ass in a completely sickened tone of voice.  Your insecurities make you doubt every single aspect of who you are and question everything you think, do, feel.

You know you're so much more than your looks, your zits, your weight - you're kind and compassionate and loving and generous and helpful and funny.  So why is it that so damned much of your self-worth is tied up in your looks?   Not even in your looks - your perception of your looks.

But really, it wouldn't matter if the entire planet's population lined up at your door to tell you that you're beautiful: you'd never hear it because you're unable to see it.

This is not beautiful.

That moment when you realize your mom isn't going to be around forever

My mom turned 50 on the 29th of January.  If you're new here, yes, that means she had me when she was 17.

I think it was my 30th birthday that we discussed how much bigger the age gap will seem once we're in different "decades" - me being in my 30's when she's in her 40's seems MUCH less than me being in my 30's when she's in her FIFTIES, if that makes sense: it feels like a 20-year difference instead of a 10(ish)-year difference.  That widening of the gap has been in the back of both of our minds for the past three years.

My parents adore Vegas: they've been more times than I can count.  It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree because I really like it there, too.  Granted, I haven't been anywhere else, so I don't really have anything to compare it to, but there's so much to see and do for relatively little money, it's perfect for a quick getaway.

We were all supposed to go to Vegas for her 50th - that's all she wanted for her birthday.  She "asked" for this gift two years ago.  We were all on board.  Well, mostly...

Nick likely wasn't going to be able to go, what with needing a pardon to get across the border and all.

Taylor was working part-time and being paid minimum wage; Justin was making decent money, but couldn't be expected to foot the bill for both of them.

Chebbar was still laid off this time last year; his Employment Insurance benefits were close to running out; we were struggling; I was stressed (as usual).

At her birthday dinner last year, Mom basically let us all off the hook: she knew money was tight for most of us and wasn't really sure how a "family" vacation less one of our family members would feel anyhow.  She left the invitation open-ended - those of us who could afford to go at the time were more than welcome, but we were NOT to stress or put ourselves in financial straits to go: there would be other family trips.

Nick still wasn't able to legally cross the border.

Taylor and Justin broke up.  She couldn't imagine going without him (the first time she'd been to Vegas was with him).  She couldn't imagine going with someone else.

Chebbar was called back to work, but temporarily: since we had no idea how long he'd be back, we didn't feel comfortable making plans.  Then he found out he'd have work through this summer.  We were banking money hand over fist.  We could have gone.

I'm not sure when, why, or how it happened, but we carried on like going still wasn't an option.

The closer her birthday loomed, the more upset I was over the fact that we weren't going, especially since we could have afforded to go.  It got to the point that I had to stop thinking about it because I'd get weepy (I just confessed how much skipping the trip upset me to both Mom and Chebbar last night).

When I talked to her last night about the trip, she confessed that she was rather depressed on her birthday.  She had given Brad her Christmas list with birthday items back in December; she explained that the birthday ideas were for us kids if we asked - he didn't have to buy her a gift since they were going to Vegas.  He replied with a little smile and a "We'll see."  On Saturday, there was no gift.  No card.  Unfortunately (I'm guessing due to the fact that you lose all track of space and time in Vegas), Brad forgot to even wish her a happy birthday until late afternoon.  Apparently even their dinner that night "sucked."

She said it all made her realize that she doesn't want to be away for a holiday again: even if there had been no gifts, no cards, and late happy birthdays at home, at least she'd have her kids with her.  She talked about how people throw big shindigs for their 50th birthdays and how that would have been pointless for her: she doesn't speak with half of her family and has "no friends."  She said it was a realization about her life she wasn't quite prepared for.

For some reason, the conversation drove home the fact that my mom's not going to be around forever.  For some reason, her turning 50 is hitting me hard - I don't know if it's that I associate that age with actually getting older, or if it's the widening of the imaginary gap, or her disappointment over what could - should - have been an amazing birthday for her.  I'm feeling bad.  I'm feeling guilty.  I'm feeling powerless.  I'm feeling my heart speed up, like a butterfly slamming around my ribcage in a pathetic attempt to flee.  I'm feeling the familiar prickles in my nose that signify pending tears.  I'm feeling like a scared little girl.

This Is Why I Love You: Reason #13

#13:  You text me at 12:44am to apologize for forgetting to tell me in person that I'm beautiful before you left for work (also apologizing for waking me up and demanding I go back to sleep).  <3  




Explanation

You are beautiful

No, really: you are.

The lovely Princess Jenn gifted me with this amazing book after reading my "Ugly" post:

I had a few light bulb moments reading this book...  *ahem*

I think I'll get to what I took away from it in another post.  However, I'd like to draw your attention to a facebook event that is taking place today: Tell Her She's Beautiful Day.

Take a moment out of your day to tell someone - male, female, pet, whatever - that s/he is beautiful.  You'll make his or her day, and improve your own: trust me, making someone else smile almost always makes you smile, too.  Go share your love.  You know you want to.  :)