First, winner of the bra giveaway is M, from comment #51! M, please send me an email and I’ll hook you up! HAHA! Sorry.
I was hanging out with my mom and her friends from high school the other day, and they were like, “Are you going to write about this?” Because people always say that to me. And then they said, to each other, “She’s going to write ‘They were so old! It was kind of sad. They seemed to be trying to look good, but they were just so old and sad…’”
In reality, I thought they were awesome. Fantastically witty, playful Jewish women who do voices and gesture big and tell lots of jokes that start “So a rabbi and a priest were on a plane…” I got that wonderful feeling that I want to always get—that one that goes “God, I have a lot to look forward to.”
But anyway, we started talking about body image, because my mom was like “so Kate is writing this book about body image!”
And I was like, “Um…sort of. But we definitely don’t need to talk about that.” Because it is embarrassing to just start talking about how I learned to hate the way I look. And how I got two nose jobs. (For some reason, writing about it feels completely different.)
I like the part of the story where I start this blog and start to feel good, but it takes a while to get there. Which is what makes it a story, I guess.
But my mom wanted me to talk about body image. She’s got to be proud of me, she’s my mom.
And we all ended up in this big conversation about beauty and everyone was talking about how hard it is to convince yourself that you look good, especially if your mom told you things like “honey, you should really go on a diet.” And how it continues to be hard for a very long time. Maybe your whole life. How do you even get to that place, where you feel beautiful?
I think you have to work on it, like anything else, I said.
Some of the women seemed a little skeptical, and I was embarrassed. Here I was, telling a roomful of fifty-somethings to “work on it.” I had this niggling, jittery sense that I was forgetting some critical piece of the puzzle.
I looked down at the tablecloth. I muttered something about self-acceptance being a journey. And then I remembered.
“It’s not just about feeling beautiful,” I said. “It’s about letting yourself be ugly, too.”
And everyone looked at me. Because that maybe sounds stupid.
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