Alternative title: My Body: More than the Sum of Its Faults
(I couldn’t resist. Gotta love Youtube)
Like any normal, American woman, I’ve had issues with my body image. And by issues, I mean minor annoyances. I’ve been blessed enough to not feel the need to go to extremes. When I was skinny, I accepted being skinny. When I had a roll or two, I just had a roll or two. Deep down I knew my issues were minor. But nothing’s truly minor to a 14-year-old, 19-year-old, or even a 25-year-old. You just debate whether the pain and cost of doing something about it is worth the benefits. In my case, it never seemed to be.
Growing up, I, of course, saw the same models, singers and actresses everyone else did. They were all beautiful because someone else said they were. But in my head, Whitney Houston was gorgeous b/c she could sing (despite the ridiculous crimped blond wigs). Naomi Campbell was intriguing b/c she would’ve failed the paperbag test miserably and everyone still loved her. Cindy Crawford was cool b/c no one seemed to care she had a mole, oh, excuse me, a “beauty mark”. Madonna had a big gap that no one seemed to notice. I found these women and countless others interesting because we were all supposed to pay attention to what they could do and not the small things that would’ve been hinderances to people in the real world.
As I got older, I began to identify with women and characters who suffered the same ill fates as I did (or what I considered to be ill at the time). Storm was my favorite X-Men, not b/c of her powers (although controlling the weather would be pretty cool) but b/c she was tall, slender and black. (Don’t even get me started on Halle Berry being cast in the movie. I love her but she’s SHORT!!!) Kate Hudson became cool in my eyes not b/c of her skills but b/c she’s rather flat-chested. The Jet beauties were interesting b/c they always had big butts. Tyra Banks never lied about her weaves. (I’ve never had one but I understand the desire.) Etc…
Most of the women I’ve named are black. This is not to say that I don’t see the Catherine Zeta-Jones, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Lopez, Lisa Ling or Heidi Klums as beautiful. Of course they are. But they’re just not who I generally measured myself against. What was the point? My mother worked very hard to surround me with milk chocolate-skinned, dark brown-eyed and raven-haired dolls, pictures, barbies, books, etc.
I went through a brief phase of imagining how much easier it would be to be blond and blue-eyed but I emerged content to be brown. Next came the feeling of not being black enough. I seemed to lack the desirable attributes of black women. Instead of full, luscious lips, my top lip all but disappears when I smile (think Jim Carey’s Fire Marshall Bill from In Living Color). The voluptuous coke-bottle figure lovable even with a little extra padding completely missed me. With my small chest, no-existent hips and lack of waist, I was much closer to the $1.79 2-liter bottle. As puberty ended, it became apparent I’d never be a Jet Beauty or Cover Girl. While missing out on those particular careers was fine, the sad truth was still sad.
You see genetics had not been as kind to me as they could have been. The women on either side of my family are uniquely beautiful. Faces aside, you have apples and pears. My mother’s side of the family generally rocks the apples. Red delicious, granny smith, pink lady, take your pick. Top-heavy w/ smaller bottoms and, dare I say it, skinny legs. That shape may not be everyone’s ideal but it is what I saw growing up and expected to resemble. My dad’s family on the other hand were the classic pears. Petite tops and small waists poised upon “thick” bottoms. While one side struggles to find button-ups that don’t gap, the other struggles to find bottoms that fit the ass AND the waist. I could’ve been the classic coke-bottle, big-little-big. Instead, and in keeping with the fruits, I ended up a slightly deformed banana, straight up and down with a butt, only one of the desirable curves. :- ) This realization was only worsened by a “harmless” comment my mother made during my teens. “I used to worry I’d have to chase the boys away with my family’s top and your dad’s bottom. But now, I guess I don’t have to worry.” Thanks, Mom. It’s all pretty funny now but not 10 years ago when I was 15.
To be fair to her, the boys weren’t all that interested in high school (or college for that matter). Between going to a small school, being a smart-ass, and strongly resembling Steve Urkel, no one had to worry about me and the boys. This complete lack of attention (despite my “amazing” outfits haha) probably impacted my self-esteem more than I’d care to admit. Rather than just accept it for what it was, I gave them excuses. “Well, of course he wouldn’t be interested in someone who looks like a 12-year-old boy when I could talk to her…” Colored eyes, longer hair, bigger boobs, a better butt, whatever the case might be. I’ve since outgrown those excuses. A lack of interest is nothing more than that. I’m not interested in every man I meet. Why should I expect or hope for the same? But sometimes you can’t help but slip back into asking “why not me?”
So where’s the resolution you ask? There’s not really one. Am I stressing as much as I used to about my image? No. But I’m also doing more proactively to adapt what I see in the mirror to what I’d like to see. I’m just too lazy to daydream about changes I couldn’t make with a few extra hours at the gym or a trip to a hairdresser. I’m cheap and have no desire to go under the knife now that my wisdom teeth have been removed. If plastic surgery’s the only thing that’s going to make me love the way I look, I guess I’ll have to accept just not hating it.
Realizing why she loves banana bread, smoothies and laffy taffy so much,
Jo’van
The Truth: According to Jo'van 