I have a terrible self image. I am ashamed of my body on so many levels. In a discussion on how we see ourselves, I told a friend when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a hairy blob of flesh hanging off of a factory second frame. If that conjures queasy images in your mind, congratulations, that’s what I see when I look in the mirror every day.
Like most people, though, I often dream of what could have been. I see beautiful people and wish to myself that I could look like they do. I think everyone has a beautiful person in mind who they wouldn’t mind looking like.
It’s just that at the end of the day: wishful thinking. I will never be as cute as Natalie Portman, nor as effortlessly sexy as Zoe Saldana, as stunningly gorgeous as Scarlett Johansson, the flawless Lupita Nyong’o, nothing as button cute as Sarah Silverman, and never as eternally wondrous as Cher. In my older years, I will not rival Helen Mirren, or Meryl Streep.
If you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned any men in that group, well, I don’t envision myself as a man when it comes to attractiveness, because I have never been comfortable with that. I don’t really enjoy being around most men. I’d much rather be around women, and not just for the obvious reason.
I realize that we all have our lot in life, and that for most of us who aren’t super wealthy, the genetic roll of the dice is all we get to work with. I just sometimes feel like I was playing Dungeons & Dragons, and I rolled a 1, and then the 1 rolled off the table, and the dog swallowed it, and then shit it out on the lawn, and then it came a downpour, and washed the poopy dice into the sewer, where it was stolen by a hobo who used it as a butt plug.
I don’t know what, if anything, can be done about that. It’s not so much a vanity issue, as it is a worthiness issue. Yeah, a great personality can help you meet someone, but looks do matter to some degree. Often, someone’s looks will open the door, and a great personality will invite someone in, but if the house looks weather beaten and dilapidated, who goes in except for those looking for a horror show?
Who sees a balding, pasty white fat guy and says “yeah, I want that!” That’s no joke, I’m fat. Not husky, or stout, I’m fat. I’m 5’10, and weigh 220 lbs. I have a belly that sticks out. I have boobies. Not full on size, but they’re definitely not muscled pecs. You can squeeze them (not saying you can just walk up and squeeze my chest, but, well, I’m not sure I’d say no really), they’re about a B cup if I push them together a bit.
Some of you might argue that you’re overweight, or balding, or pasty white, and I will tell you that it doesn’t matter. I find all of you attractive, but I know not everyone is me, and for many people looks matter a great deal.
I don’t know. Just another wonderful thought I was having this evening as I watched two very pretty people discussing what it’s like with their lovers.
THE DARKEST THOUGHTS BEFORE THE DAWN
It’s amazing how differently we see ourselves as compared to how other people see us. What we think is a horrible flaw often isn’t noticeable to other people. Remember how our teenaged lives would screech to a halt at the development of a single pimple? However, that disparity does vary among people, and I know from personal experience that it’s worse when depression has once again shat in your face.
True. I always felt bad for the kids who would get ready for prom night, only to find a pimple has developed right on their forehead. I mean, I wouldn’t care if I was their date (aged down, of course), but to them it was the end of the world, might as well burn it all down.
I think it would help all of us if we didn’t have to constantly watch as super attractive people were displayed in commercials as the average person. Me, I find the average person wildly attractive (it’s more about personality than looks, and I mean by a country mile), but if you watch TV, or movies, or read books, you find out that average is supposed to be ugly, and perfection is average. It’s insidious.
Isn’t it just. An advantage of growing older (I’m 49) is that this kind of stuff matters less and less.
I worry so much about it because at 37, I’m already outside prime marrying age, especially for people who want children (which I do). My mother says not to worry about it (very easy for her to say), “you’ll find the right person” which makes me roll my eyes so damned hard I can see through time. It’s easy for her to say, because she got married at 22, had me at 23, had my brother at 29, so that when she was knocked down by medical problems, I was already starting to take care of her.
Now she loves to talk about her grandchildren, from my brother and his wife, of course. My brother, who got married at 19, and his wife of 21. My niece and nephew are 10, and 6, respectively. I have this feeling they’ll find somebody, and get married before I do. By the time my brother is 37, my niece will be getting ready to graduate high school.
It is common, in my family at least, for people to marry when young. My aunts and uncles all got married in their late teens/early 20s. Those that didn’t lived and died alone. I think that’s what scares me most. The crushing loneliness, combined with the bleak future, and multiplied by my inability to step out on my own and take command of my life because of someone who needs me to care for them? No fucking wonder I have depression. No wonder it’s getting worse. It’s no surprise, to me, that I dream of dying, because what I’m living in right now is my nightmare. This is the nightmare scenario I feared when I was a teenager. I just knew, even then, that my life wasn’t going to pan out. It was a tiny voice deep deep down beneath my Christian faith and my (imagined) unassailable optimism.
It doesn’t help with this whole body image thing. I’ve always been ashamed of my body, ever since boys would laugh at me in the locker room in elementary school when we would change for gym class. I hate my body. I love my brain, hell it’s my greatest ally (and at times enemy), but I hate my body. I hate it so much. People say “you have to learn to love yourself,” and in principle that is quite true, but in practice it’s all but damned near impossible.
Oh dear, I’ve prattled on again. I’m sorry.