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Several years ago, I sat on the sidelines and watched other women light
up rooms. They weren't stunning in the way that women are supposed to be, but they had this beauty
about them that I just couldn't pinpoint. All I knew was that I was lacking
in it. It was body confidence, I later found out - a confidence I embrace
today, knowing full well how long it took me to find.
When I was 13 years old, something as minor as a pimple could leave me
moping for hours. I wore heavy makeup to conceal my acne - so much so
that I could spend an hour in the bathroom before school to make sure
every blotch on my face was hidden. 'Friends' at school called me "zit
face" to be cruel; I tried to ignore them, but I knew it was true. When
I looked in the mirror, I saw a pale comparison of the girl I used to
be.
That year, our school took a three-day field trip to Washington D.C.,
where we stayed at a hotel with a swimming pool. I wasn't embarrassed
to be seen in a swimsuit, but I always wore a t-shirt to hide the acne
that scattered my arms and back. As my right foot skimmed the cool water,
the lifeguard yelled, "Sorry, it's against hotel policy to wear t-shirts
in the pool." I watched my friends splash around, confident with their
flawless skin and knew I could never expose myself. I faked a stomachache
and bolted for the privacy of my hotel bathroom. Outraged, I peeled off
my t-shirt to unmask scabbed, irritated skin. I cursed the imperfect reflection
in the bathroom mirror. I screamed, "I HATE you! You're SO ugly!"
By the time I turned 15, the acne had vanished thanks to medication. Eventually,
the scars faded to the background. When I looked in the mirror, I saw
a face that was pretty again, but a body that was all wrong. I discovered
in a dressing room that at 130 pounds, I was too fat for my 5'2'' body.
"I'm hideous!" I moaned to my mother, creaking the dressing room door
open so she could see my fat thighs in the sparkly black mini.
"No you're not," she reassured, smiling sadly. She suggested that exercise
might make me feel better.
I bought exercise videos and gave up ice cream and chocolate, those sinful
foods women aren't supposed to eat. In the high school cafeteria, I ate
dry turkey subs (the cafeteria didn't offer low-fat mayo packets), skim
milk, and cups of pineapples. My taller and thinner girlfriend enjoyed
chocolate milk, fries, and Doritos. She also went to bed at night with
her makeup on and never saw a pimple in her life. Talk about fairness.
By age 20, I maintained a stable weight of 117 pounds and accepted my
short legs. I then obsessed about my too-small chest! At a small 34B (okay, maybe an A if I get real and become an honest shopper :-) ),
I felt my body would be better if only my breasts were larger like women
on magazine covers and on television. I'd never been a sucker for gimmicks,
never chanted, "I must, I must, I must increase my bust" while squeezing
my pecks but an obsession had taken hold.
I bought padded bras, gel-filled inserts, and pills promising to increase
bust-size (they didn't). I contemplated breast augmentation. Small breasts
signified something was missing - a scaled down version of femininity,
I was sure.
Then in college, I devoured books about America's obsessive quest for
physical beauty and how impossible standards hurt women and girls. Something
as insignificant as a mirror holds the power to control our self-image.
A piece of glass can determine how we feel about ourselves. I had enough.
FINALLY.
I stood before my bedroom mirror, stripped of clothing, exposed to myself.
I studied my body slowly, trying to see beyond the pain and insecurity
to find what remained - just me.
I saw my father's deep brown eyes, my mother's thick brown hair, and full
lips that reveal a fantastic smile when I'm happy enough to show it off.
I saw thin, shapely arms sprinkled with nineteen beauty marks, a flat
stomach, and small breasts proportional to my body. I turned around. Sure,
my behind was a teensy bit bigger than I would have liked, but it certainly
wasn't anything to be ashamed of. My legs were short, but I liked how
toned they looked. They were petite and curvy. At that moment, I finally
just saw me. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I accepted myself
as a beautifully flawed woman.
When I was a teenager, one of my best friends had a beautiful dancer's
body. She flaunted long graceful legs, small hips, and a flat bottom -
everything I had always wanted. Imagine my surprise when she confided
that she was jealous of me!
"Are you SERIOUS?" I gasped, inspecting myself in her dresser mirror.
"You're tall and can eat anything you want and never gain a pound. Your
legs are so thin."
"But you're curvy," she responded. "Guys look at you." She tried to hide it, but I'm almost certain I saw a tear glide
down her left cheek as she pulled her long legs close to her chest. She
grabbed her favorite teddy bear from her bed and ran her fingers through
its soft white fur, careful to avert my gaze. I didn't have the courage
to tell her the truth, so I let the silence hang between us until she
changed the subject. We eventually drifted apart.
I should have told her, "Imagine how amazing we both could feel if we
saw in ourselves what others have seen all along." My younger self never
did, and my older self wishes I would have.
At age 29, I find loving my body means accepting that it will NEVER be
perfect. No matter how much I work out, I accept that my behind will never
look flawless, like bronzed goddesses on television. I'll never look like
a supermodel, but I don't care. I'm real and when I brush past a mirror,
I'm finally comfortable with everything I see. Thankfully, my surrendered
battle with the mirror empowers me to focus on more important aspects
of my life ...
Like realizing my dreams.
About the author:
Maria Pascucci is the President of Campus Calm - the award-winning online-forum for today's stressed-out students, and their parents and educators. Download your Student Life Stress-Less Kit with 4 FREE gifts at www.campuscalm.com.
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