i was getting ready for the wedding a couple of weeks ago and found myself looking astonishingly hott. yes. double T hott. possibly even sexxy. so, to document this momentous occasion, i whipped out the camera, stood in front of the mirror making various supermodel inspired poses (you know, that open mouthed, slit eyed, pissed off look that passes for sexy these days) and took some pictures. alas and alack: enter The Schnozz. you see, when i am seen in real time, you are too busy trying to figure out what it is i am going on and on about, watching the blur of my ever-flapping gums, to notice The Schnozz. so when you see me live, you think that i have pretty blue eyes, and that i talk. A LOT. but when the camera captures the moment all you see is The Schnozz. and it is large. big. huge. it takes up a far more than reasonable amount of my facial real estate. and it was (oddly enough) a real surprise to me.
you see, over the last 35 years i have seemingly made peace with my physical bits. (except for the round the waist bits that continue to piss me off. though not enough to swear off wine. or food. or wine. i might have already mentioned the wine.) so it was an unpleasant surprise to look at my hottness in the mirror, press a button, look at the screen, and see a definite Schnozzness.
but i got over it. i even wore a halter dress with no bra, which, at 35, could be seen as either extreme chutzpah, or early onset dementia. take your pick.
i was at two weddings recently and noticed a strange thing: the curly-haired bride had her hair straightened; the straight-haired bride had her hair curled. each was made to look unlike herself, with the implication that the way she was was somehow not good enough. you know, the old "lose weight for your wedding day" and "grow your hair for your wedding day" and "even though you might never ever wear white, wear white for your wedding day" and i really could go on forever because i hate the wedding industry THAT much. interesting, no?
all this got me thinking about bodies, and the self-hatred that young (and older) women have to contend with all their lives. i think of how beautiful i was as a young woman, and how i never really saw it because i was always a big boned girl and the mothers of my bird-boned girlfriends made me feel like an overweight gorilla. even my mother pointed out the slight protrusion of my belly as something freakish and wrong. so i went through years of hating my body when the pictures i see of it now prove it gorgeous. all those wasted years. grrrr.
but even now in my thirties, as i try to embrace myself, my flaws, my imperfections, i sometimes trip and fall. and i look at mister monkey who parades his belly proudly, who sticks it out and asks me if i want to touch "his friend" while i skulk around, sucking in the gut, never EVER looking in the mirror without the aforementioned sucking-in. what do you wanna bet that as i enter my 40's, i will kick myself for not appreciating my 30's body. and then in my 70's i will be even more pissed at my lack of respect for the perfectly functioning non-achy bod of my yesteryear. and even though i know all this, it is still a struggle to like myself on a regular basis.
next time around, i wanna be a man. (also, i want to see if it really is impossible to pee INSIDE the bowl)