Everywhere I
go, from print to internet to screen, I am bombarded with descriptions and
images of how a woman should look. If I were to believe it all, men only want
to be involved with women who are (and subsequently, women only want to be) young,
5’9”, 115 lbs., tanned, toned, long wavy hair (preferably blonde), blue or
green-eyed, with a flawless and totally smooth and unlined/unwrinkled face, and
with legs long enough to wrap around an elephant. Personality need not be
included. For a long time…a very long
time…I bemoaned the fact, I was short, far from thin, had stick-straight brown to
auburn hair, brown eyes, stumpy little legs, small mouth, and eyelashes that
refused to lengthen and curl no matter what I tried. Around age 12 or 13, I
even remember one of my father’s sisters telling my family that I might be
passably decent looking if I just lost a few pounds and the glasses, and they
agreed. When those who are supposed to love you the most find fault with your
looks, it takes a toll.
I have
always felt like less in the looks department, and then I grew up. Granted, it didn’t happen until I was 50 or
so, but I learned to accept me for who I am, and found out I’m one helluva
person, and can actually clean up pretty good despite….no….BECAUSE of what are
considered flaws by many.
Every extra
pound on my body (and I fully admit I could lose a lot of them) represents a
wonderful meal with family and friends, enjoyed by all. They stand for the love we generate around
the supper table, at weddings, after funerals, at Christmas, Easter,
Thanksgiving, and far too many birthdays to count.
I do admit
to coloring my hair to get rid of a tinge of grey over my ears, but my
hairdresser says only until my eyebrows start to turn, and then we shall go au
natural. I treat myself to facials, and
use high quality facial products to keep my skin from becoming dry and
leathery, but I will never use chemicals or surgery to change my
appearance. I am me. I am unique. I am
wonderful and it is my flaws that make me so.
Every line
and wrinkle on my face represents a memory of a tear shed, a worry worried, or
a laugh shared. Why would anyone want to
delete those wonderful pieces of life to appear less than what they are? The
latest fad is for men too, to undergo facelifts and Botox treatments. Why?
Are all these people so shallow and vain that appearance is what counts
most? That what’s inside is negligible?
How empty
are the lives that deem this necessary.
That’s not a question, by the way – it’s a statement. How freaking shallow and devoid of what
really counts is your life that you feel it required to change your appearance
in order to fit in to a perceived notion of who you should be, whether it’s
your insecurities or peer pressure pushing you in that direction?
Stand
straight, let it sag, bag, wrinkle, and pucker. Smile. Let the inner you shine
and be secure in the fact that you are real, and not a caricature of who you
really are. There is a tall, 27 year old, voluptuous redhead inside me, and I
let her take over my 64 year old 5’1-1/2”, overweight outside. Guess what? People see the physical me, and
love that crazy redhead inside. I refuse to hide anything or be someone I’m
not.
Go jump in a
lake Madison Avenue and Hollywood, and take your unrealistic ideals with
you. I don’t need you. No one does.
Be secure
and comfortable in who you really are, for once you start changing to please
others, you lose yourself in the process.
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