Pretty Is as Pretty Does

In December of last year I began a 365-day self-portrait project on Flickr. I had to quit recently as events in my life began to take precedence over creative pursuits, but not before I had to defend and explain the purpose of the project over a dozen times. I am not indulging rampant narcissism; I am in fact attempting to accept my own image by using it to create art.

People get upset with me when I say I don’t think I’m pretty because they think I’m leveraging some false modesty in an attempt to be placated with more compliments. That’s not it at all. Intellectually I understand there are people who find me attractive – I’m not stupid. I see how men look at me, I realize I didn’t get out of that ticket because of my stellar people skills and those ex-boyfriends don’t stay in touch because the conversation is so good. But that’s them looking at me. When I look at me, it’s a different story.

Beauty is subjective, which means I, the subject, determine the level of attractiveness in It, the object, and the object (my reflected or photographed image, in this case) simply does not conform to my beauty ideal. Which, unfortunately for me, has looked like Grace Kelly pretty much since I was seven years old. That’s a lot of years of blond-haired, blue-eyed, petite-featured water under the bridge, and I doubt I’ll change it in this lifetime.

Would I get plastic surgery? I’ve considered it. I’ve even put a deposit down for a procedure, but I keep pushing the date back as the idea of having someone else change my god-given shape becomes more and more unattractive to me. I’d still love bigger boobs to balance out them child-bearin’ hips, but I don’t think I want to carry around little sacks of salt water in my chest to have them.

Like many others committed to the project, the objective behind my self-portrait project is self-acceptance. On some level I know I have a wonderful, healthy, strong body and I’m grateful to it for resisting illness, lifting heavy boxes, running a marathon and giving me amazing, toe-curling, window-shattering orgasms every once in a while. But if I could take a magic machete and hack off that extra hug of fat wrapped around my abs, I’d do it in a heartbeat, consequences be damned.

I wish I could say I was comfortable in my skin, because that speaks of being at peace with myself, inside and out. But I’m not. Sometimes I am jubilant, sometimes despondent, but never at peace. That’s a life-long journey, I guess, and I think I’m at least still headed in the right direction. And that I’m comfortable with.

Because I post here, I don’t really have anything to post here. I might try someday anyway. . I don’t accept notes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t comment.

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