Is it sad that I'm so baffled by this quest for perfection in others?
I think this whole journey has led me to have a strange appreciation for the natural.
I imagine finding a woman and falling in love (to those of you who haven't followed me through the turmoil, my preferences tend to classify me as "lesbian", though I am open to the idea of falling in love with a man...women are so much more attractive to me). I imagine what she'd look like--and she's not skinny. Not by any of the modern accepted means. I imagine a size 14 or 16, maybe an 8 or 12. Soft stomach, soft legs, full breasts, and long hair. I think of how she'd feel in my arms, without a hint of bone, and imagine how she'd look with a smile on her face, or a flutter of insecurity at her own appearance before I convince her with every touch and kiss that she's perfect just the way she is.
That she shouldn't change.
That she shouldn't ever try to change, because her body is perfect to me.
I want to see her happy.
I imagine as we get older together, the way her face will alter. The wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, the slight thinning of the lips. I wonder if her fingers will become rough on the palms from work, or if she'll take up knitting or something that seems, as of now, like a ridiculous pursuit by older women. Crosswords, sudoku, or water aerobics at the rec center. I picture myself carefully massaging her hands when age begins to make them ache, or laughing at the wrinkle creams she brings home and telling her that I wish she wouldn't bother--every line on her face is there as a sign of the life she lived, and I'd like to think I had a hand in putting them there, especially the laugh lines.
I picture her in her forties, early fifties. Her hair is starting to gray, and I become obsessed with running my fingers through it. Even now, the thought of it makes me feel delighted--of aging with someone. Of seeing someone I love remain natural, confident, and beautiful.
I imagine older. Seventies. Eighties.
There's walkers. Perhaps an assisted living facility. She's got the face of a grandmother now, and so do I, and I love every inch of her just as much as I loved her in our youth.
I can see how she'd scoff and shake her head as I whisper to her the truth, "You've grown more beautiful every day that I've loved you..."
I see women who are older. Women who are young and fuller.
They want to change themselves. Botox, plastic surgery, starving, diets, constant self hatred...
...I want to tell them to stop.
I smile sadly because they won't believe me if I tell them, "Do you realize how perfect you are right now? How beautiful you are?"
If they loved themselves a little more, focused on being healthy a little more,
they'd stop suffering.
They'd learn what it meant to be healthy, rather than skinny.
They'd change the face of media.
You can't force the marketers to do it.
It's an internal thing.
They won't change their adverts until we change ourselves.
And we won't change ourselves, until we love ourselves.
I imagine being with a woman who is beautiful, and soft.
A woman who is...everything I'm not. Everything I don't want to be.
I want to be skinny.
I want to have plastic surgery on my chest.
I worry now about wrinkles. 23 years old and I obssess about grays.
I wonder why it is that I find in others beauty, when in myself, I see a monster....?
Perhaps because I cannot see me.
So it makes others all the more clear.