I read an item on CNN recently that really caught my attention. It struck me because I knew in my heart it was true, even as I was denying the truth of it in my head.
The item was written by a woman who glanced at her friend's refrigerator and spied a picture of herself posted there. She was most unhappy, because she felt that picture made her look, in her words, "like a chipmunk with mumps." Her eyes were crinkled, her cheeks were puffed out because she was about to burst into laughter - she felt that picture did not put forth the best face she wants to show the world, and she was hurt. And yet, when she complained to her friend about the choice of photos she had posted to remind herself of the very important friendship they shared, her friend was hurt that she didn't value the beauty of her own face.
Well, welcome to my world. Every time I see a picture of myself, I hate it. I look old, I look overweight, my hair is all wrong, my smile is goofy. I hate my teeth, my nose, my face, my body. Simply put, like most women, it's never good enough for me to just be me.
Ironically, my lovely young daughter is the same way. I have a picture of her now, posted in various places around the house, that is simply breathtaking, a photo of a face that anyone would love to wake up to every morning. Naturally, she hates to look at it, because it just isn't good enough. The flawlessness that is her face is not perfect enough to memorialize, in her mind, because surely she could have, should have, looked even better.
Men are a different breed of animal. [I realize that is not ground breaking news, but it seems particularly true in this situation.] Men look at pictures of themselves, and they feel good about the event, the people in the picture, and even themselves. I have noticed over the years that when men look at photos of events, they concentrate on the good things in it, the event itself and the people in them, barely noticing, if at all, their own less than perfect smile, their messed up hair, their goofy expression. Men do not seem to notice balding heads, tubby bellies, pant legs hitched up or other flaws that would send women into psychotherapy to overcome the distress of it all. When women look at a photograph, it is usually with the critical eye to their personal flaw, and they are barely able to see anything else.
What is it about women that forces us to over-analyze ourselves, sometimes to death? No matter how beautiful, how thin, how perfect a woman may be, she wants something more.
Another point that was made in the article was that most women's favorite pictures were taken at a time that we are at our thinnest and most vulnerable. That was a fascinating insight for me, one that I could immediately relate to. The only photograph of myself that is posted on my fridge, which is posted not so I can look at myself, rest assured, but the other two people in it, is one where I was going through a difficult and painful divorce, and people kept worrying about my blowing away.
The only pictures of myself that I am even tolerant of are from when I was so thin, people frequently used the term "anorexic" to describe me, and I had total strangers making unflattering comments on my slender appearance. Even now, when I see pictures of myself from that time, all I can see is a thin woman who looks far better than the one I see in the mirror every morning looking back at me.
When does this process of self-distortion begin, I wonder? At what point do we stop seeing ourselves as valuable, and start to see only the flaws?
My daughter recently saw a photo of herself when she was little, hugging her older brother and smiling, and she seemed surprised to see how cute she was when she was small. She was always beautiful, but while she can apparently appreciate it in herself when she was younger, she cannot look at the same face now and see the even greater, more mature beauty that is there now.
I think that may be part of the reason why I love my pets so much. They validate us as we are, worship everything we do, and they simply do not care what we look like at any given moment. When I wake up in the morning, it is to a face of total delight because I am awake, and good things will now happen. They do not care that my hair is a mess, my breath is not fresh, and I am probably crabby and scowling, because I am not a morning person. They only see that the person they adore, the leader of their pack, is awake, and it is time for the joy of living to begin anew.
I wonder what it is about women that causes us to diminish our own value, from childhood onwards, it seems? While we can overlook all the flaws in our best friends, and forgive almost anything in the women we love, we forgive ourselves for nothing. No matter how others see us, we spend endless hours worrying about the flaws, real and imagined, cutting ourselves down until there is very little left to appreciate in our own selves.
Think how many woman hours a year are wasted in the pursuit of making ourselves more acceptable, not to others, but to ourselves. It's a bazillion dollar business, probably driving the entire economy. It doesn't matter where we are, from the metropolitan city to the roughest hut, we will find women trying to improve themselves somehow, beautifying the masterpiece that God created.
Now, I'm not saying that we shouldn't make an effort. There is nothing wrong with trying to put our best face forward. But in my maturing years, I am suddenly learning that if I am not good enough as I am, I won't be good enough any other way, either. The search for perfection is a fruitless one, because there is no such thing, and never will be.
So instead of trying to achieve the impossible, perhaps we should spend more time on attaining the possible. If we need to drop ten pounds for our health, then we should do it, as much for our families as for ourselves. If we have a bad hair cut, then we should get a new one. If we have let our clothing go, perhaps a new outfit is called for.
But we also need to love ourselves as much as others love us, accept ourselves for who we are, and realize that good enough really is. Beauty has never been skin deep. The most beautiful people I know are not celebrities on the red carpet, they are the people I love, the people who share my own personal world. If they can accept me as I am, flaws and all, who am I to argue?
Everyone knows that all brides are beautiful. Why is it that even the plainest woman becomes the most beautiful version of herself on her wedding day? I think it might be because it is the only time in her life that she actually feels beautiful, from the inside out. When you have that many people coming to your party, and you know that the man of your dreams has picked you out of a crowd of millions, it makes you feel special, at least for a little while. That feeling of well-being is reflected in your appearance, and for a few short hours, you know what it means to feel beautiful.
I think there is a lesson there for all the women in the world who worry about their appearance. If you can be beautiful one day in your life, you are beautiful every day. My own daughter calls me gorgeous all the time, and while I know I'm not, I think, in her mind, I just might be. And who am I to disagree with her? Because if I diminish myself, then I am diminishing her.
Go enjoy the day, and know you are beautiful to the only people who matter.
