Self Love
This entry has been bouncing around in the back of my mind for over a week, only I haven't yet managed to sit down and write it. And no, you perverts, not that kind of self love.
Like approximately 90% of the rest of my classmates, I didn't fall under the "popular/hot chicks" grouping, I didn't sit with them at lunch and they weren't my friends, though I spent years wishing in vain that I could be like them. (Totally normal school experience.) It took me years to learn to love my own image and to be honest, I've only accomplished marginal success. I know my flaws withouth looking like a map that I've poured over for years. I am almost always 'aware' of the fact that I am out of shape, and still getting break-outs in my early-to-mid-twenties.
But I also spent a long time gazing in the mirror looking for me, the girl that was pretty. Here's where I found her:
My Eyes. They're semi-hazel, that unique color of greyish sea-blue that turns green in the right lights or with the right clothes. When I wear make-up, I almost always decorate them to look green. I love the fact that they're adaptable, but also they happen to match my favorite color, which is also green. The skin around them has a natural darker tint, reminiscint of make-up, and my eyebrows have always been full and gently curved (though I do wax them now, which is a task I actually sort of enjoy, but I didn't used to shape them at all.) They look equally beautiful and thoughtful being framed by glasses or without. If the eyes are the window into the soul, then despite all my protests my soul 'must' be beautiful for the reflection that it offers the world.
My Lips. I speak (I hate public speaing), I sing, I laugh and I smile. Those closest to me know that I often communicate as much through non-words as with articulate speech, in tone and pauses and small squeaks, in nervous giggles or boisterous laughter. I sing with a mostly-untrained voice that I often over-extend, but I sing and I sing and I sing and I know that it is beautiful. My lips are often chapped when I don't take care of them, but they have a natural fullness without being overly pouty or big, terrifying I'm-going-to-swallow-you like Angelina. I have a beauty mark above my upper lip which I have never liked, but have grown to accept as a part of my smile. My teeth are not perfectly straight (despite having braces), and are not perfectly pearly white, but they fill in a very pretty smile. My mouth is my voice, as important to my expressions as the rest of my face, and I love it's shape.
My Hands. My hands are small, fingers thin and short but a little bit fleshy, and the span is small enough to make certain chords on the guitar a rather arduous task. I type at approx. 83 words per minute, though I forget the accuracy. My nails are strong and can grow out quite long, but I usually keep them short to accomodate all of the things I do with my hands. My hands are talented, they draw and paint and sculpt lumps of clay into bowls and mugs. They feel all sorts of textures and they move as I speak as if I were an italian, talking with my hands. I don't know sign language but I should. Parts of my hands are rough, but I can stare mesmerized at the lines along my palms for whole minutes just simply tracing the shapes.
My Feet. Are tiny, I wear a size 7-71/2 (I am approx. 5'4", so I am short), and my little toes love to wiggle when I take off my shoes. I love being barefoot because it gives me an excuse to stare at them. My heels have a tendancy to get dried and cracked, so they are the one part of my body I try to take care of the best. I do not have a foot fetish, but I do love my little feetsies (even if they are almost always cold.)
My Breasts. My breasts and I have a love/hate relationship. When I was very young I wanted breasts so I could look like the models I saw in playboy as I poured over stolen magazines from my dad's collection, and I was very sad that I didn't have any so I used tissues when I played 'dress-up' in my room alone. (Multiple portions of that statement are hilariously amusing now.) Fully grown, I out-cleavage my mother and sister combined in a 38-D cup (american sizes), and I know that my sister is at least slightly envious (also funny, considering I wish I could be as stick-thin as she.) My cupsize has been a physical identifier for me for years, ever since high school, and have often been used as pillows by my friends to lean on and take a nap. To my disappointment, gravity and I do not agree upon their placement, and I have come to dislike the fact that I can't go without a bra, and they aren't 'perky.' Despite my complaints, I love my breasts, they are my own, one of the large (pun intended) physical reminders of my womanhood.
My Hair. My hair used to be a lighter, more golden blonde than it is now, it's darkened over the years (as I got wiser?) Unlike my mother and my aunt, mine is thick enough to grow it as long as I like, all the way down to my waste if I wish. It still has a spun gold quality that sparkles in sunlight, like a dark antique patina rather than something shiny and blinding, with natural highlights. It has always been wavy, but not curly, without curlers or hairspray, so I almost never do anything more to it than shampoo & conditioner, and a leave-in conditioner or some de-frizzing mousse. Depending on the way I let it dry, it will curl up like a wild lion's mane or straighten itself out, which is a good thing because I hate spending obscene amounts of time on primping.
My Skin. I don't like the break-outs, but I do like how sensitive it is that the barest of caresses produce shivers even where I'm not ticklish. I've grown accustomed to the pale skin and that I really don't tan well, because I love being petted.
My Neck. I've always loved the shape of a woman's throat, the hollow at the base of the neck and the line of the collar bone, and I certainly find my own to be fairly pretty. Of course, this is also where my voice box is.
My Arms&Legs. I don't know why, perhaps it's from years of ballet when I was younger, but I love the grace in my arms - especially when I dance. Over the years I've lost some of the strength and muscle definition that I used to have, so my calves aren't as shapely as they once were, but I still think them nice to look at, especially in high-heels. ;)
That's most of what I can think of right now, some of them were a bit of a stretch to say I love these things about myself... There are still many pieces of me that I struggle to accept, some of them because I think I can do better by working out more and some things I just don't like the look of. The process of learning to love everything about me as other people love me is a long one, full of ingrained self-criticism to unravel.
Like approximately 90% of the rest of my classmates, I didn't fall under the "popular/hot chicks" grouping, I didn't sit with them at lunch and they weren't my friends, though I spent years wishing in vain that I could be like them. (Totally normal school experience.) It took me years to learn to love my own image and to be honest, I've only accomplished marginal success. I know my flaws withouth looking like a map that I've poured over for years. I am almost always 'aware' of the fact that I am out of shape, and still getting break-outs in my early-to-mid-twenties.
But I also spent a long time gazing in the mirror looking for me, the girl that was pretty. Here's where I found her:
My Eyes. They're semi-hazel, that unique color of greyish sea-blue that turns green in the right lights or with the right clothes. When I wear make-up, I almost always decorate them to look green. I love the fact that they're adaptable, but also they happen to match my favorite color, which is also green. The skin around them has a natural darker tint, reminiscint of make-up, and my eyebrows have always been full and gently curved (though I do wax them now, which is a task I actually sort of enjoy, but I didn't used to shape them at all.) They look equally beautiful and thoughtful being framed by glasses or without. If the eyes are the window into the soul, then despite all my protests my soul 'must' be beautiful for the reflection that it offers the world.
My Lips. I speak (I hate public speaing), I sing, I laugh and I smile. Those closest to me know that I often communicate as much through non-words as with articulate speech, in tone and pauses and small squeaks, in nervous giggles or boisterous laughter. I sing with a mostly-untrained voice that I often over-extend, but I sing and I sing and I sing and I know that it is beautiful. My lips are often chapped when I don't take care of them, but they have a natural fullness without being overly pouty or big, terrifying I'm-going-to-swallow-you like Angelina. I have a beauty mark above my upper lip which I have never liked, but have grown to accept as a part of my smile. My teeth are not perfectly straight (despite having braces), and are not perfectly pearly white, but they fill in a very pretty smile. My mouth is my voice, as important to my expressions as the rest of my face, and I love it's shape.
My Hands. My hands are small, fingers thin and short but a little bit fleshy, and the span is small enough to make certain chords on the guitar a rather arduous task. I type at approx. 83 words per minute, though I forget the accuracy. My nails are strong and can grow out quite long, but I usually keep them short to accomodate all of the things I do with my hands. My hands are talented, they draw and paint and sculpt lumps of clay into bowls and mugs. They feel all sorts of textures and they move as I speak as if I were an italian, talking with my hands. I don't know sign language but I should. Parts of my hands are rough, but I can stare mesmerized at the lines along my palms for whole minutes just simply tracing the shapes.
My Feet. Are tiny, I wear a size 7-71/2 (I am approx. 5'4", so I am short), and my little toes love to wiggle when I take off my shoes. I love being barefoot because it gives me an excuse to stare at them. My heels have a tendancy to get dried and cracked, so they are the one part of my body I try to take care of the best. I do not have a foot fetish, but I do love my little feetsies (even if they are almost always cold.)
My Breasts. My breasts and I have a love/hate relationship. When I was very young I wanted breasts so I could look like the models I saw in playboy as I poured over stolen magazines from my dad's collection, and I was very sad that I didn't have any so I used tissues when I played 'dress-up' in my room alone. (Multiple portions of that statement are hilariously amusing now.) Fully grown, I out-cleavage my mother and sister combined in a 38-D cup (american sizes), and I know that my sister is at least slightly envious (also funny, considering I wish I could be as stick-thin as she.) My cupsize has been a physical identifier for me for years, ever since high school, and have often been used as pillows by my friends to lean on and take a nap. To my disappointment, gravity and I do not agree upon their placement, and I have come to dislike the fact that I can't go without a bra, and they aren't 'perky.' Despite my complaints, I love my breasts, they are my own, one of the large (pun intended) physical reminders of my womanhood.
My Hair. My hair used to be a lighter, more golden blonde than it is now, it's darkened over the years (as I got wiser?) Unlike my mother and my aunt, mine is thick enough to grow it as long as I like, all the way down to my waste if I wish. It still has a spun gold quality that sparkles in sunlight, like a dark antique patina rather than something shiny and blinding, with natural highlights. It has always been wavy, but not curly, without curlers or hairspray, so I almost never do anything more to it than shampoo & conditioner, and a leave-in conditioner or some de-frizzing mousse. Depending on the way I let it dry, it will curl up like a wild lion's mane or straighten itself out, which is a good thing because I hate spending obscene amounts of time on primping.
My Skin. I don't like the break-outs, but I do like how sensitive it is that the barest of caresses produce shivers even where I'm not ticklish. I've grown accustomed to the pale skin and that I really don't tan well, because I love being petted.
My Neck. I've always loved the shape of a woman's throat, the hollow at the base of the neck and the line of the collar bone, and I certainly find my own to be fairly pretty. Of course, this is also where my voice box is.
My Arms&Legs. I don't know why, perhaps it's from years of ballet when I was younger, but I love the grace in my arms - especially when I dance. Over the years I've lost some of the strength and muscle definition that I used to have, so my calves aren't as shapely as they once were, but I still think them nice to look at, especially in high-heels. ;)
That's most of what I can think of right now, some of them were a bit of a stretch to say I love these things about myself... There are still many pieces of me that I struggle to accept, some of them because I think I can do better by working out more and some things I just don't like the look of. The process of learning to love everything about me as other people love me is a long one, full of ingrained self-criticism to unravel.