A couple of months ago, I subscribed to the imgfave feed on Google Reader.
This is a mixed blessing because for every one Mean Girls/Harry Potter mash-up meme (so. much. win.), there are six images of generic nonsense (sun-dappled rooms, glitter, clouds) misattributed quotes (dudes, I can promise you Bukowski never spouted lines from The Princess Bride. Ever) and that glurgey crap from MLIA that teenage girls slap up on their Tumblrs.
Then, I came across this image. And it got me thinking.
I don’t hate my body.
I’m don’t walk around thinking I’m Slagathor the She-Beast, but every now and then — I look in the mirror and really dislike what I see. And I’m not the only one.
Case in point — Cougar Town.
The cold open of the pilot consists of Courteney Cox’s character, Jules, in her bathroom giving herself the naked once-over. She pinches, jiggles, grimaces and stares in shock. And she caps it off by huffing, “Crap!”
Dudes, Courteney Cox is 45 and she looks like this:
If I looked like this right now, much less at the age of 45, I’d wear as little as legally possible. In fact, Cox would probably be considered burkha-clad by comparison (sorry Mom).
But, this is what women do. Pretty much every girl I know has looked in the mirror at her hips/calves/shoulders/hairline/pores/nail beds and thought, “Oh, what the hell is this fuckery?”
Why? I’ve been milling this over in my head and I really can’t figure it out.
Why do I do this?
Is it so I’ll be aesthetically appealing to the opposite sex? Well, I’m only really interested in being appealing to one man (This time, I’m talking about Augs and not Ron Livingston. I know, it shocked me too) and he already thinks I’m pretty cute.
A few weeks ago. I’m wearing my sick girl uniform of sweatpants, my high school yearbook t-shirt, zero make-up and my hair up in a messy bun. Dan looks at me and says completely sincerely, “You look really pretty today.” My response? “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!”
Which brings me to point number two — maybe it’s a sense of body dysmorphia where what I see in the mirror is at odds with reality?
I look in the mirror and don’t see toes but pigs-in-a-blanket (the hors d’oeuvres, not swaddled barnyard animals). My pores aren’t pores but rather hubcabs that would make a BP exec tent his shorts in excitement and my hips? Not so much hips, but a startling, wibbly mess resembling badly-mixed butterscotch pudding that’s been funneled into beige pantyhose.
To quote my girl Madge, do you know what it feels like for a girl? Well, when you grow up in a society constantly bombarding you with the notion that skinny and sleek and polished and pretty = successful, it feels an awful like crippling insecurity and self-loathing.
(Sidebar: Size 000, American Eagle? Are you stone-cold shitting me?).
And you know what? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of looking in the mirror and feeling as if I’m too much and not enough. I’m sick of wishing I was a little more this or a little more that. I’m sick of looking in the mirror and feeling I don’t measure up both, both literally and figuratively.
I’m starting a revolution. I’m going to stop hating my body and I shall go on to the end.
I shall fight in France, Los Angeles, Morocco, Auckland, on the seas and oceans and wherever else the wind may carry me; I will fight with growing confidence and growing strength. I shall defend my self-worth whatever the cost may be; I will fight on beaches, in fields, in streets and on the hills. I will never surrender and I will love myself and the girl in the mirror.
Vive la révolution.
Oh and triple zero? Bitch please, I’d rather eat goat cheese.