[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

In The Sea by Samantha Hunt, the female narrator is staring at an albino kid, who says to her, “I can see you, you jerk.” Shortly after, she is looking critically at herself in a mirror, when she suddenly thinks to herself, “I can see you, you jerk.”

When we judge our own appearance, we’re usually jerks. Staring and hating are a kind of vain practice in which most of us take a perverse pleasure.

I like the way I look. I despise the way I look. It phases in and out like the shape-shifting moon. Good years, bad years. Good months, bad months. And so on. Some days it can depend on the time of day. Some days a change of outfit can fix the frown-at-self syndrome, sometimes a better hair day. Some days it’s nothing at all; I just wake up feeling good about myself. Some days I can look at a lingerie catalog and only see the awesome unmentionables. Some days I look at the same catalog and all I see are “perfect” women, making me feel unmentionable. In other words, some days are better than others.

When I complain about such and such flaw (most often something related to acne problems or spider veins), I often hear this in response: “No one cares about that! No one would even notice.”

Well, I care and I notice. The skin blemishes, the spider veins on my thighs, the prematurely grey hair (the frizzy horror!) – these are all things I’m more likely to notice in other people who are similarly afflicted. I don’t wear short skirts without hose or tights because I’m self-conscious. And if I see a woman around my age with exposed spider or varicose veins, I don’t think, “Rock on, sister, for not letting them get the best of you!” I actually think, “Ew.”

Unkind? Perhaps. Sure. My personal baggage which I consider a burden, not an excuse. What I most despise about my physical appearance I do covet in others: clear skin, sexy stems (no veins, muscle definition!), and because I began graying early (17), usually people who have luxuriously long, naturally colored locks. Fortunately for those I covet, I am not a serial killer. I do, however, have a habit of staring. (To the pretty red-head who frequently finds herself on the 2 bus with me during our morning commute, I apologize.)

I’m admittedly shallow. I may have my own take on beauty, style and general aesthetics, but I definitely have a take. Certainly what appeals to me doesn’t appeal to everyone. (For instance, I dig a man with a lot of body hair. It's the opposite opinion I usually hear voiced.) And “flaws” aren’t deal-breakers. It may take months to work up my courage, but I will eventually take a skinny dip in front of friends, flaws and all. I’ve worked up the courage to assume that what’s flawed about my appearance is balanced out by what’s attractive, etc. And it goes the same for other people. I don’t look at someone who also has acne problems and think, “How ugly!” But I do notice they have acne. And then I stop noticing. And that is a greater kindness than I afford myself. I can get past what I perceive as a physical flaw in someone else a heck of a lot faster than I can get past my own.

I don’t get down about my weight so much, but again, I have my bad days. Like most women, I hate my thighs and if there is a hell designed especially for me it would certainly involve jean shopping. Mostly, with regards to weight, lots of different body types look good in the nude, in my opinion. And in clothes, it’s a matter of dressing well for whatever body type you have. Something similar could be said about aging. Work with what you have and don’t wish desperately you were something, or someone, else.

There are beauty stereotypes and their blissful exceptions, and I generally pick and choose from both when I’m either attracted to or appreciating someone’s appearance. Same goes for how I perceive myself. It might be nice to have a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and dainty features, but then I wouldn’t see my loved ones when I look in the mirror. I jokingly curse my parents for their genetic betrayal (both struggled with acne at one point or another in their life; my dad is prematurely grey; my mother has bunions, etc.…), but after they’re gone I’ll need only look in the mirror to see my loved ones: The shape of my Dad’s nose. My mother’s eye color and freckles. My grandmother died when I was five, but there she is in my crooked smile.

At my worst, I let what I don't like about my appearance turn me into a gigantic, self-pitying bore. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way, thank goodness, and for the most part a healthy dose of self-confidence makes for the best kind of cover-up.

These days I’m feeling more “at my best" with regards to my appearance, my life, the general goodness of it all. And though I will still waste time mulling over my perceived flaws, I’ve gotten a lot better at saying, “I can see you, you jerk.” Sometimes I'm even able to convince myself that ugly is the new pretty. Why shouldn't spider veins be the new heroine chic? Heh.