**An old post, an old me, sitting in the drafts, waiting for a day for me to bring it out again. I don’t feel like this anymore, but I still think it has a powerful message. We KNOW it’s not real – this manufactured image of perfection, yet somehow we beat ourselves down when we don’t reach these unattainable expectations. These days it’s not just magazines, but blogs, “IT” girls and TV as well. All of us are PERFECT in our own way. Fucking perfect. Don’t let ANYONE, let alone yourself tell you that.
I look at You out of the corner of my eye.
You look right back, unashamed, defiant in your gaze. Your lips are curved in a seductive smile, your body language all too enticing. I take everything of You in, from your perfectly styled hair, your flawless complexion, from your tiny waist and the to-die-for wardrobe. You watch me as I watch You and I know You know what I am thinking
I see You everywhere. Every page I glance at You are there.
Shiny, glossy, in full colour.
Pouting at me, winking with the self satisfied expression of someone who knows a secret. Every time I turn on the TV, You are there. You preen at the cameras, smiling graciously at the attention, the model of humility, all the while loving every moment
You are every celebrity. You are every supermodel. You are every long-legged, long-haired, tiny-waisted, pert-butted-and-boobed, perfect-skinned woman I see
You try and befriend me. Bring out article and interview after another of how normal You are, how like everyone else You are, how misunderstood You are. That it is You against the Big Bad World.
It always has been.
And that really, there is so little that separates You and me.
I should be smarter than this. I know what You are. You are a figment of my insecurities, magnified a thousand times and splashed across the world for me to see. For You to gloat at what You are and what I am not. You know the way I look at you…what it means. It’s not just me, it’s everyone. You have fooled them all into thinking that You are the ultimate perfection. That our ordinary, everyday selves are nothing against the pure power of what You are.
Every time I look into the mirror I see You behind me smiling in that maddening way You have, while I despair over my hips, my thighs, my butt. As I cup my breasts, and think that they are probably the only part I like about myself, You are there pointing out everything I don’t.
I take a shower and scrub furiously at those parts, wishing I could scrub them away. The tears stream down my face, mingling with the hot water and I want to die.
I am paranoid about what I eat. I run until my legs can’t take it any more. And I feel it is not enough. In my desperation, unable to stop myself, I binge on what was forbidden and I am put yet again back to the start.
I am an educated, independent woman. I say that proudly, but when I see You, I feel like I mean nothing. My voice falters, my mind clouds and there is only one thought.
I want You.
I want to BE You.
And You smile at me, a cold, glittering smile and rejoice.