TRUE BEAUTY

I have always had body-image issues; not enough to be body dysmorphia by any means, but enough that I was always looking in the mirror wanting to change this and that, poking at my sides and butt, reviewing the flatness of my chest, and flapping my dangly arm fat. I’m not sure at what age this came about, probably in puberty when girls start noticing the changes in their body. My sister and mom were both “well endowed” and frankly, I just sat around waiting for my boobs to grow in. They never did. I was overwhelmed with my physical appearance, not because I was hideous, but because I was different. I was pale with freckles that I hated (even though my sweet mother kept telling me they were angel kisses), rail-thin, red-haired, and left handed.

TANGENT: I had a math teacher call me to the front of class on one of the last days of school. The class was busy either talking with each other, finishing last minute projects, or just socializing. He’d let us do that if we got our assignments done; so thank goodness I did not have a classroom full of EYES staring at me. But my friends Tiff and Carla were watching. He calls me to the front of the classroom and tells me he noticed I was left handed. I looked at him, puzzled, as to say “and so…?” but he continued, asking me to pull a book off of his shelf. I make eyes at Tiffany and Carla who smirk and shrug their shoulders. I was a little confused, and definitely thinking “what the hell…” so I couldn’t possibly tell you what the book was. A dictionary? Thesaurus? Book on Wizards? No idea. But he turns to a page in the book that talks about left handed people. He has me read aloud what it says. I don’t remember, but it was something to the jist of “leftys are of the devil…”. After reading the passage, I again turned to him with confusing and all he said was “My mother was left handed”. I stared blankly at him, and he at me. I look out to Carla and Tiffany who are holding back laughter, as am I by this point. I said, “Well that was very intriguing. Thanks for sharing!” and returned to my seat. Was he being funny? Serious? A creepo? Who knows…Ok back to body image issues….

So to throw on top of all that, I had the figure of a boy and it was just overwhelming. By age 16-17, I started to wonder what my options would be. Settle with the fact that I just have a boyish figure? Stuff my bra for the rest of my life? Plastic surgery? Ugh. I don’t want to pick any of those options, I just want them to grow in!

I started dying my hair blond in high school; one less insecurity to deal with. I didn’t let my red hair grow in until I had moved to Utah, at age 20. I was finally ready to face the facts about myself. I’m just going to have to deal with red hair. When I would go home and meet up with friends from high school and college, they barely recognized me. Many were surprised to know I was naturally red haired. Even a few of my aunts had asked me what color of red dye I was using. Au-naturale, baby. Finally, I had accepted that I was a red head. And in all reality, the color of red changed. I went from the light reddish orange to a dark almost auburn color. It was beautiful. And for the first time, I started to appreciate it.

But still. Looking like a boy. Flat as can be. Come on, I’m 20 now. If they haven’t come by now, they aren’t coming. By this time, I had already decided that I’d purchase a pair if needs be to shelter me from the insecurities I felt. So tired of wearing t-shirts over swimsuits and push up bras. So tired of feeling inadequate in my own skin. I’ll skip all the details of that saga, but the point is, I eventually did have plastic surgery and had a breast augmentation. To finally feel feminine was amazing. To feel confident in my own skin was almost an overwhelming feeling I can still hardly express.

Once that insecurity fell to the side line, I realized some amazing things about myself. Being different is GOOD. Being a natural, beautiful red head is RARE. Being a lefty makes me quirky. Having fair skin still sucks, but luckily our society has come a long way in the sense of self-tanners and FINALLY made a stink about skin cancer. PALE IS COOL! So while I still have the insecurities, I am now able to side-step most of them, and continue on in my life, healthy and happy with what God (and a good doctor) gave me.

Fast forward to now. 6.5 years later. Without sounding too self-centered, I do think I’m beautiful. Of course I’m not perfect, but I am happy with myself. Inside and out. However, the insecurities still creep up from time to time. I can’t help but become obsessed about dieting and exercise. What starts out with good intentions of being healthier becomes about being thinner, leaner, more physically attractive. Damn it. How did I come around to this again? I thought I’d put those insecurities to rest. While on a drive to Las Vegas with a friend, and feeling once again overwhelmed with imperfection, I said to my friend, “Don’t you ever worry about being in public in a swimsuit? I’m always worried about how I look”. My friend shrugged and said “No. I’m comfortable with myself. If they don’t like what they see, they can look away.” HOLY. COW. Why hadn’t I ever thought of that before? I felt like I had been hit by a semi.

Her little phrase empowered me in so many ways. In a world where outer beauty is perceived as far more important than inner beauty, I have fallen victim to myself. I have let other people decide for me if I was pretty or not. I was basing my outer appearance on what other people looked like, and not on what I felt was the healthiest route for my body. I was ashamed of myself for ever being that insecure.

Well, no more. No more will I be killing myself in the gym. No more will I diet and deprive myself of the foods and sweets I love. No more will I look to Victoria’s Secret commercials as a means of finding BEAUTY. I will decide what is best for my body, from the inside out. I will exercise because it’s important to be healthy, and I want to live a long, healthy life. I’m done fitting in with the standards of perfection drawn out by society and media. I’m a grown woman and I should have found my friend’s view all on my own. I should have felt this way years ago. But here I am. A grown adult who is finally saying I will decide what is best for me.

With a trip to Florida in two weeks to see my best friends, where we will be hanging in swimsuits for the majority of the time, I’m not going to give one damn about how I look, because it should always be about how I feel.

Side note: I still would have gotten the boobs. That was for me, and I’m proud I didn’t let anyone persuade me one way or another on the matter.