For those of you not addicted to celebrity gossip, Heidi (age 23) recently underwent 10 surgeries in a single day in her bold quest to become closer to Barbie/Dolly Parton. The results? She looks about the same, in my opinion. Blonde, pretty, vapid... only her breasts have morphed from "ridiculously-large" to "anatomically-impossible-large."
Feminist impulses aside, this pitiable girl and her insecurity served as a personal reminder to suck it up and be OK with my post-baby, post-twenty, post-toned body. Am I supermodel hot? Nope. (And never was.) Do I entertain the laughable idea that plastic surgery will somehow improve my situation? Nope. (Well, occassionaly I daydream about a breast lift.) Does being supermodel hot even remotely matter in the real world, where I whole-heartedly dwell? Nope, thank God.
If a very young woman who started off looking fresh-faced and lovely (and blonde and vapid) can feel so bad about herself that she needs ANY plastic surgery at all... well, then the problem is clearly the distorted standard of beauty (and its disproportionate importance), emphatically NOT the girl's actual appearance. Yeah, I'm about the 1,852nd person to state the obvious: the problem's in her head.
But if the problem's in her head, then chances are at least some of my body-image problems are in my head as well.
Of course I still care about my appearance. I love myself and want to look as good as possible. I love my husband and want him to feel lucky he married me. I feel a huge pang of jealousy when I notice 'hot' mama's at the kiddie pool. But, thanks to Heidi, I'm going to have an easier time keeping these rare pangs in perspective.
What our mothers told us was true, physical beauty is only skin deep. I prefer to be a woman of substance.
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