I spent 15 minutes this morning examining my face. It was strange. That lady glaring back at me had a look on her face that shouted "What?!" She was frustrated that I took suck care in applying under eye cream, the liner to open up my tired eyes that I belligerently pulled the corners upward- just to see what an eye lift would do for me. Just to see. I'm sliding towards 30. I trace every wrinkle and suggestion of a wrinkle on my face. that bitch in the mirror is pissed. She does not like this tired ritual. Stop pinching the fat that gathers around the waist, the hips- it steals time. They will love you anyway.
Sometimes, I will be that frisky gal in the mirror and listen- forget the shit that comes with being a female, the physical judgment, mostly self-induced. I know I cannot air-brush myself before I leave the house, so I instead brush my shoulders off, call myself beautiful, eat a big sandwich, and take on the day. But I do not think the difficulty of this task is truly appreciated. Women, those magazines, the billboards, the light banter of what we eat, how often we work out or hit the gym- it's a competition isn't it? Thinner, blonder, less carbs, more Pilate's, suck it out, pile it on, shorter skirts, higher heels, less respect, but more attention. Sex it power is healing is money.
Is it degrading or empowering? I cannot decide. All I know is sometimes I cannot face the gal in the mirror. I hate her. I hate myself. I hate the physical being. I hate having to eat. I hate pudgy. I hate having to squeeze into clothing that makes me appealing. I love being a woman, but hate what it entails. No, I don't have to... technically, but I feel as if I am held to female standards set by the Virgin Mary- so perfect, Eve- so daring and knowledgeable, purring and perfect Eartha Kitt, Maxim models so tragically poured into their lingerie ready and ripe, brazen Veronica Lake, smoldering Betty Grable- I want that. The bar is set so high- I cannot disappoint these strong and glorious women who came before, but I am so small, weak, and plain. I cannot face the mirror some days.
Feature by feature, I do okay. When you place it all together, I feel like a Picasso, or a Mr. Potato Head. Not right, modpodge. I stress about it- wonder if others can see my physical defects. Can you see the blues written upon my imperfect face? The sharpness in the nose, the uneven-ness in the cheeks, particularly the jowls? The skin tone, so blotchy? Do you see? Do you SEE? I am not alright.
Hypnotized in front of the mirror, ignoring the protesting reflection. Rubbing cold cream under dark under eye circles. You can find me here each night, performing my beauty rituals, praying for release.
