WHAT'S  WRONG  WITH  ME?

by Amelia Wilson



How much time and energy have you spent wondering about the answer to this question? I don't know about you, but I'm rather alarmed at what the real totals are in my case. And I'm supposed to be an enlightened feminist type?

Let's see... how many times have I shown up late for something because I was having a "bad hair day" and I thought that if I could just spend five more minutes fussing with it, or maybe re-wetting and re-drying just one more time would help? How many times have I spent an entire day feeling exposed and weird because there's a pimple on my nose that I'm sure everyone's staring at, or berating myself for wearing this stupid shirt because it's too tight and people will notice I've got breasts or something.

And how many hours have I spent trapped in my bathroom because I've got some noxious concoction on my body that's supposed to take away the hair on my bikini line, or color the hair on my head, or stain my pale skin into some ridiculous semblance of a tan so I can finally stop sweating through those boiling hot summer days wearing the jeans I won't take off because I'm too self conscious to bare my milk-white limbs.

And how many people have I met who've made me think to myself "if only I could be this or that like so-and-so". If only I could have his silky long eyelashes and her breezy, sexy hairdo-- as though this would somehow also confer upon me his strength or her courage? So if only my legs weren't bowed and my hair too thin, I'd have more confidence? If my eyes were larger and my nose smaller, my skin clearer and nails longer, would I not be so shy?

If I were perfect, would I be perfect? Would I be more loved if my legs were smooth and tanned? And how much time have I wasted worrying about things that I can't do anything about? And how many places have I not gone, and food have I not tried, and adventures have I not had, because of some preposterous notion that there was something wrong with me when the truth of the matter is that not only does nobody else notice these "flaws"-- NOBODY ELSE CARES?

I've tried to get to the point in my life where my self-consciousness is both knowable and limitable. I try to police myself for rampant, abusive self-criticism and keep it at the harmless time-waster level of self-tanning creams and fussed-with hair. I try not to let the messages creep in from the outside world that I need to be this thing or that. I try to be reasonable and logical and I try not to feel guilty for feeling so lousy sometimes when I know that all I should be is thankful and grateful for the abundance of talents and gifts that I do have. I try, I really do.

And sometimes it even works.


Amelia Wilson is an "enlightened feminist type" who still wishes she had lustrous hair.

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Grrowl! E-Zine © 1997, Amelia E. Wilson. All rights reserved. Works copyrighted by their individual authors.

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