Vanity.

Last night, my step-mother, Dorothy, told me a thought-provoking story.

 

She was in the fitting room at a major department store, trying on a pair of Spanx. (You know, those slimming under-garments?) In a fit of rage, the belly-slimmer tried to attack her. When it couldn’t kill her by cutting off her circulation, it went straight for her face, trying to block off her oxygen and prevent her from defending herself. Don’t worry – she won. She defeated the Spanks, and save for a little trauma, is just fine.

 

I started thinking about all the awful things I do to myself in the name of beauty. I have several pairs of Spanx (and its competitors). I have the kind that look like shorts. I have the high-waisted, panty kind. I have the tank-top kind, and the kind that covers my stomach but circumvents my boobs. I wear them regularly, like a blood sausage squeezed into intestines.  (Thanks for the visual. Love, Daisy)

 

Flabby tummy aside, I do other, violent things to my body. I use a hair-straightener that has, on more than one occasion, singed my ear, neck, hand, etc. I’ve poked my eye with liquid eyeliner applicators more than I’d care to admit. I used to go to a tanning booth, although now that my days are extended to 30 hours, I don’t have the time to poison myself like I used to.

 

Why do I do this to myself? I’m happily married. Buddy’s stuck with me whether I’m 130 pounds and pretty, or 400 pounds and covered in donut powder. (And he’s admitted to finding me beautiful in the latter state AS WELL AS the former.) I’m confident enough not to base my self-worth off the opinions of other women. I work with tacky teenagers all day who think that formal wear is a pair of dark-wash jeans and a bejeweled belly shirt, so nothing I wear will impress them. I can’t think of one good reason to continue putting myself through this torture regiment.

 

Oh yeah. It’s because I’m vain.

 

What terrible things do you do to yourself to create the illusion of beauty?

 

-Violet