Congratulations mankind, you have finally reached the age of the human Barbie.
Let’s face it, reality is no longer reality. From scripted “reality TV shows” to airbrushed magazine covers. Reality bites. And it’s showing, people. Like a bad pair of underwear.
Pills. Knives. Silicone. Razors. Veneers. Waxing. Dyes. Cosmetic tattoos. Underwire. Contacts. Fake nails. Injections. Braces. Perms. Piercings. Tanners. We willingly and masochistically pursue the fallacy of Barbie perfection.
Excuse me, Jesus, while I go eat my weight in mini Twix bars.
I could send a child to college with what it would cost to fix my mouth. Due to drug use and bad genetics, I have four missing teeth, two that need to be pulled, and one implant. That’s seven. Gone. Before the age of 40. Honorable mention goes to my double-digit cavities. Go big or go home.
I know geriatric patients with more real teeth than I have.
When I look in the mirror I see massive pores and 30 lbs of excess weight. And for the record, there is absolutely no bra on planet earth that holds the miracle to make my ladies point any direction but south. It’s called gravity, folks. Top this with the delicious icing of an occasionally unstable mind and I’m legitimately asking my husband why he married me.
But I have a feeling that if we secretly interviewed men and asked them what they see when they look at their unedited partners, the responses would be far more optimistic. So what’s true? This new reality is a lying sack of, well, you know.
I recently experienced a new sense of shame while at the park with my little boys. I kept my clothes on in the pool. It was 100 degrees out. There it was: The lie telling me I have to change to be worthy of love. Or acceptance. Or public viewing. I didn’t want to become the mother who doesn’t do active things with her kids, but is heat stroke or my accidental drowning really the answer?
My tribe needs this five foot ball of occasional self loathing.
I understand the camp of people championing healthy living and better life decisions. I get it. I’m to blame. I’m absolutely guilty of double fisting those delicious bear claws while sucking down my third coke of the day because life feels too hard and “I just can’t even” anymore. But I’m reminded there’s always a very real story behind these poor dietary choices.
We all cope in different ways. So for right now Jesus is hanging with Ronald, Krispy, and all of the gluten brigade. Lame, I know. But it’s not drugs. Or alcohol. Or smoking. And that is progress.
So ladies, if you are not feeling super in love with your body image, don’t despair. Get to the bottom of it, whether it’s our culture, genetics, emotional problems, physical illness, or maybe you are just a beautiful plus-sized woman (get it girl) — and go from there. Love yourself where you are at. And when you choose to make a change, choose the method wisely and do it for the right reasons.
Because at the end of the day, I know that my husband sees beauty here. Even when I do not. And that makes me want more. A healthy more. And really, Jesus deserves better company.