The Perfect Body

I have a perfect body. A ten in every regard. Every time I look in the mirror, I say to myself, “Wow. Check out that bod!” while winking and firing an imaginary pistol three times in my reflection’s direction.

Hate me? I understand. I’d hate me too. But maybe this will help: I’m lying. I don’t really have a perfect body. Not even close. My body is flawed. Some might even say it’s horribly, irredeemably flawed. Some might say my thighs are too dimply, my stomach’s too soft, my pores are too big, my crow’s feet too crow’s feet-y… The list of criticisms is endless and the voice is loud. But the worst part? The person who is saying all these things is me.

It started innocently enough. For the first eight years of my life, body confidence was a non-issue. My body worked the way I wanted it to and that was that. Until the day I wore my new translucent blue jelly shoes to the playground. “Your toes are funny,” my friend said, pointing to my feet. “My toes?” As far as I knew my toes were like everyone else’s in my family. Long and thin, nothing to notice. She pointed at my feet and said, “Yeah. They’re weird.” I studied our digits, decorated with matching pink polish. Where her second toe began a gentle slope down to a petite pinky, my second toe stuck out a good knuckle’s distance past its neighbors. How had I never noticed this before? My toes were weird. I had freakishly long second toes. I could feel my face flushing with embarrassment, but she had already forgotten. “C’mon, let’s go!” She grabbed my hand and we ran through the park just as we had before, only now I was weighed down with the thought, “What else is weird about me?”

Though we all have them, I’m not sure how many women can pinpoint the moment their body issues began. Mine quite literally began at the bottom and worked their way up. As I grew older, my toe issue became less pronounced as I adopted other insecurities. My legs weren’t “nice.” I was too skinny. My hair wasn’t shiny enough. My eyes were too small. I wasn’t pretty enough. I listened to the voices of cruel, judging teenage girls and let them become my own. I could easily stand in front of the mirror and name 25 things I’d change about myself without a moment’s hesitation.

I’ve thought about how to change these things. How to perfect myself and be more like what I think the world expects me to be, what I’ve thought I wanted to be. Facial fillers, teeth whitening, skin treatments, hair extensions have all crossed my mind. I’ve been more tuned in to news of the latest and greatest fountain of youth miracle cures than ever before.

Until recently. Like the moment my insecurities began, I can also pinpoint the moment the ides began to turn. I was lying in bed next to my 3-year old, trying to edge him towards sleep. He snuggled in closer, and I took his little body into my arms. “Mommy, I love your arms. They’re so strong.” I held him tight as he drifted off.

For some reason, his words stuck with me. And I began to notice a change in my thinking. Instead of wincing when I saw myself in a bikini, I was thrilled to be out swimming with my son. Instead of being worried about my thigh dimples, I was focused on laughing with the little boy I was lucky enough to have on my lap. Rather than being obsessed with the size of my pores, I was more aware of how my husband smiled when he saw my face. And somehow, along the way, I’ve started to feel a bit stronger, a bit more beautiful, and a lot happier.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t thrown out the anti-aging eye creams or stopped my barre and spin classes. I still have to take a deep breath before dropping my towel at the side of the pool. But now when those negative thoughts and imperfections start fighting their way in, I have a trick. I try to focus on what my body is allowing me to do. And then I try to see myself as my son does and as my husband does. To them, I am strong. To them, I am beautiful. And though some days it’s easier than others, I’m starting to think so too.