My Body Through My Eyes

I like my neck. As a chubby teenager, my mom used to joke that I got my dad’s short neck. Now that I’m a slender gal, I got me a slender neck.

I don’t like my boobs—for so many reasons. Too small, too saggy, mismatched entirely. Had my breasts succeeding at the one thing for which they serve purpose—breastfeeding—I would maintain a lot more appreciation for them.

I hate my pooch, as I call it—my lower belly that sticks out despite an otherwise indented, hourglass waist. My pooch often holds the number one spot for most hated body part; its main competition being my legs. The shape of my legs is awful; a fat wide knee sprouting from an otherwise normal calf connecting to fatty thighs. An unattractive trail of varicose veins runs down half the length of my leg—a bubbling river from my inner thigh to mid calf.

I like my calves and my toned arms, though they’re not often entered into a sexy category. I love my back—its strength, its clean expanse of skin, the tattoo I chose to put there.

I hate my feet; they’re too wide with the fourth toe hiding behind the third—the lone inhibited bone in my body. But I sustain an admiration for them; they have successfully transported me through many of life’s terrains as I collected the memories in its path.

I am eternally grateful for the services of my uterus. It successfully housed and nourished my growing son for ten months.

Historically we exist at a point where the average person has access to change almost anything about their body. Our society has blossomed into a culture that changes to conform, rather than one that accepts differences and individuality.

Hollywood has permeated our lives, presenting us with Ken and Barbie-like ideals. Synthetic idols as models for a society that strives—often through dramatic measures—to plug ourselves into the same plastic mold.

My boyfriend is a brilliant photographer who often succeeds at making his subjects look striking. “I pull out what’s beautiful about the person and focus on that,” he says.

As I stare at the mirror into a reflection of imperfection, I wish I could see my body through his adoring eyes. I often catch him gazing at me, his eyes surrendering into mine. He doesn’t see my ordinary brown eyes; he dives, soul-first, into a kaleidoscope of brown, glinting with gold flecks.

Now if more of the world can see through an artist’s eye …