I’ve said once. I’ll say it again. And probably a million more times in my life. Vanity, is heavy. At first it you don’t know because it’s more fun than not. It doesn’t feel like vanity when its only outward display is physical beauty. It feels light and energizing, intoxicating. There is no real burden and the return you get from it is a dopamine rush probably only matched by some chemical that makes you feel like a superstar while disintegrating your brain.
For not being a physical object, it sure is heavy. You don’t realize it until you’ve been carrying it around for a while. In the beginning we have all the natural advantages — youth, a good metabolism, (for some) pre-pregnancy body, growth hormones still prioritizing how your look contributes to the attraction of a mate. And you’ll never appreciate how young and beautiful you are in your twenties, until you are in your forties, and beyond is my guess (I’m 45).
Upon first becoming self aware, I must not have cared what I looked like. It must have taken a while to decide it was important to look pretty, or be pretty. And before I considered myself acceptable, I remember specifically being disgusted at my ugliness. I remember looking forward to being “older” and suddenly beautiful — that’s how it works, right? I remember getting excited that it was almost time to grow boobs. What a disappointment that turned out to be.
Remembering my feelings, I can only think, what a waste of time and energy—to care so much about something that matters so little.
Self acceptance wouldn’t find me until I was close to 40 years old.
What a shame.. and again, what a terrible waste of time.
