Beauty

This morning, I got up, took a shower, did my hair and makeup, got dressed, you know, the usual. But there is a difference today. I feel beautiful. I look beautiful. It got me thinking. Who sets this standard of what is beautiful and what is not?

Why should I let someone else tell me if I am beautiful or not. If I think it is so, then it is. According to some ancient "wisdom", Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Pardon my language, but I call bullshit. People have been telling us what beautiful is for centuries. No wonder the human race is so screwed up.

Every person on this planet would grow up with a healthy idea of what they, themselves think of beauty, if society would not interfere. I truly believe this. No one telling you what they think of so and so, and how about that person over there? No more magazines saying, wow, look, this celebrity got fat, and this one lost too much weight. Personally, if we would stay out of their lives, I think Hollywood would be that much healthier in terms of body image.

But forget about Hollywood. Forget about the media. Let's talk about me. (I wanna talk about me, wanna talk about, I wanna talk about #1, oh my me my - Sorry, could not resist the Toby Keith reference. Funny guy) I have a low self image on most days. I worry about what people think of me in this shirt, what about that skirt, can I hide my little tummy? What about my legs? How much of them can I show? All that kind of crap. And that's really all it is. Crap. Bull shit. Worth nothing!

I used to cover up everything. No sleeves shorter than 3/4, no shorts, capris had to reach at least mid-calf. A couple of weeks ago, my mom came to visit me. She is a short, loving, awesome, somewhat round person. (I look like her, only 6 inches taller...I'm a little more spread out.) She was wearing shorts, and a tank top. Nothing really skimpy, we don't really go for that, thick straps are the thing. (Plus we need to cover up the monstrous straps to the major support bras holding up our "girls".) Anyway, back to the point. She looked nice. She always looks nice. Clean, neat, tanned from being outside all the time. Her arms were showing, and so were her legs. She doesn't care. My dad doesn't care, he still loves her. None of us kids ever cared, and I don't remember any of our friends ever commenting, "Wow, your mom should not wear shorts." No one. She does not even think it herself. So why did I think it of myself? Mental defect from years of self punishment, I guess.

So I started wearing sleeveless tops. Pretty much every day, actually. (You should see how tanned my arms are getting!) I have one pair of shorts, that I wear around the yard...I would wear them in public, but they are kind of ripped in a lot of places, and look a little like Daisy Dukes. Of course, I don't look like Daisy Duke in them, but that's besides the point. I have a pair of shorts, and I wear them. I have been looking for more shorts, not that I have had much time to shop, and while I am no longer afraid of my legs, I don't really want them to look like sausages. I may had gotten a little sidetracked again, but the point is this: I am showing a little skin, and I am not afraid of it! I don't feel ugly, I don't feel fat. I feel good.

I may not be a size 2, or even a size 12, but hey, I feel pretty damn good. I look pretty damn good. And nothing has changed. I am still the same size as last summer. Apparently, it was all in my head. Does this suprise me? No. Am I going to be rid of my negative thinking forever? Of course not, don't be stupid. I'm human. But I am going to be able to give myself that hypothetical kick in the ass. (Hypothetical, because really, who can bend like that? Seriously!)

I look damn good. I feel damn good. I am my own idea of beauty today. It's a good change.