Women should be able to eat the damn cake. We should be able to look in the mirror and like what we see.
I love cake. But when I lift the fork, this monologue starts in my head. It’s about my arm fat and my waist fat and the fact that if you have this particular face, as I do, then you can’t really afford to gain weight.
Sometimes I think we’re all wrestling with an image of the imaginary perfect woman. I’m sick of her.
I grew up thinking I was just about the hottest thing in the world. I was homeschooled. I used to sketch myself naked and then show the drawings to absolutely everyone (good social skills, right?). It took until college for me to start feeling like I was probably genetically ill-fated.
Some days I think, “Oy vey, not everyone can be gorgeous. Get over it. Focus on something else. Take up ceramics or racquetball and stop staring at yourself in the mirror!” Some days, I feel like none of this matters. Some days, I am stunning.
I write about all of it. And about NYC, where I’m surprised to find myself living, my husband Bear, who was the first guy I met in person from a dating site, my nose job, cutting all my hair off, things that confuse me, life in general, and chocolate cake (because really, let’s just eat it!).
I do an “Unroast” with every post. Unroast: Something I like about the way I look (or anything else about my life) that day, and why I like it.
Lots of love,
P.S. A quote about this site:
“I think everyone reading it will probably realize that they’re more normal than they thought”– Liz
admin on February 28th 2010