Essay 110: Advocating for self-love and true beauty

Today’s Valentine’s day and my planner’s journaling prompt read: “What type of love is most important to you?”.

As much as I value the romantic love that joins me to my husband and the maternal love that bonds me to my daughter, self-love is what I find most important.
Not ego. Not vanity. Self-Love. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Grace.
Is there anything more important in life than embracing what makes you You?

A friend of mine showed up at my door the other day to drop off her daughter for a playdate and announced nonchalantly that she had just made an appointment with a plastic surgeon.
Once I picked up my jaw off the floor, I asked her what she was planning on getting done. She talked of wrinkles and saggy skin and how they dragged her spirit down. She talked of not liking what she saw in photos.
I was floored.
This friend, who, like me, is in her early forties, looks at least ten years younger.
She has silky blond hair, sparkly blue eyes and just the right amount of freckles.
She also has the fittest body of anyone I know (after multiple pregnancies): lean legs, round tushy, firm tummy. In fact, she’s the kind of woman who annoys the heck out of other women simply because she’s so pretty and yet SHE thinks she needs a remodel. I don’t know if she is going to go through with it. I hope she won’t.

I’m not anti cosmetic surgery. I’m just pro liking yourself first.
I am pro working on the inside before touching the outside. If a house’s foundation is crumbling down, putting a fresh coat of paint on it seem pointless.

My skin is also not what it was when I was 20.
My hair is (not so) slowly turning grey.
I’ve got a good size wart on my upper arm now and just noticed a small spot growing near my chin. I have cellulite, cracked heels, crooked toes and teeth. I have a lined forehead and sun spots that will most likely continue to grow and become brown patches on my face.

But when I look at myself in a mirror, I don’t focus on any of that.
I see luxuriously long wavy brown hair.
I see long lashes above twinkly brown eyes.
I see dimples on either side of those crooked teeth when I smile.
I see shapely thighs, a flat tummy and a round enough rear end.

I see a 42 year old woman and I think she looks hot. Truth be told, I think she looks hotter at 42 than she ever did at 20.

Was her skin smoother then? Yes
Were her legs leaner then? Yes
Was she an immature, insecure girl then? Yes

Now she’s grown into a fun, mature, confident woman. She’s beautiful for a multitude of reasons that have nothing to do with smooth skin.
Her intelligence is beautiful.
Her courage is beautiful.
Her kindness is beautiful.
Her vulnerability is beautiful.

Don’t misunderstand me. I do take care of my appearance.
I work out. I put oil on my dry skin. I brush with whitening toothpaste. I may even start coloring my hair someday. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don’t think so. (But feel free to disagree in a comment below.)

I am the appointed steward to my body. I take the job seriously but there is only so much I can do. I want to live to 90 or even 100 you know. Even if I keep looking 10 years younger, no amount of surgery is going to make me look 20 then. Time will carve more lines on my face and gravity will bring my skin down. The sooner I accept that, the better off I’ll be. I know an 84 year old woman who won’t wear short sleeves because she thinks her arms are too saggy. She already thought that 50 years ago! That’s not what I want to focus on when I’m 80.

We live in a society that bombards us with a photoshopped ideal of beauty. We’re told we’re not good enough as we were designed. Most of us have bought the lies. I know I have. I still catch myself wanting to have legs a mile long. I’m not sure I’m gonna like to have more salt than pepper on my head. Then I take a deep breath and remember what matters.
I choose to believe right now, that, ultimately, what I look like is not what determines my beauty.

If cosmetic enhancements help you feel better, by all means, go for it. I’m just hoping the decision is the result of rational thinking, not a compulsion fed by fear and self loathing. I would consider surgery the same way I do make up. I don’t need it to leave the house; I’m okay with people seeing my “unpainted” face, but, on rare occasions, mascara and glittery eye shadow seem to be the right call.

Don’t fix your face (boobs, tummy, thighs…) hoping it’s gonna fix your life. It won’t.
Surgery can’t make you beautiful.
Only you can make you beautiful.
It starts with believing you are.

Question: Which one of the four photos above would make it into a magazine? Does that mean I am not beautiful on the other three photos? Do you take photos of yourself? Even when it’s not magazine worthy?

Further inspiration: