here's another old write-up i managed to find amongst my old files. it's about being a my being a pig. well, figuratively being a pig. oh, just read it.
I used to think people with insecurities were silly. They keep whining & grumbling about their imperfections, blaming the environment, the food they eat, the way their parents brought them up, bad genes, & themselves. They complain that their arms are too thin or their thighs too big, that their skin is too dark or their lips are too pale, that their legs are too short & their necks too long. They gripe on & on about their physical faults, no matter how insignificant & unnoticeable they are: the bump on their nose, their lazy eye, their overly large pores, weird hairline, unsightly nailbeds, excessive nosehair, nasty saddlebags, dimwittedness (ok, that one’s a different category). It’s just laughable to hear them moan on & on about their corporeal flaws & blemishes. That is, until I became one of them.
I’m a tall, lean 17-year-old with curly hair, who thinks her only shortcoming is her nearsightedness. In my opinion, I had nothing to complain about my body. I may not be perfect, but hey, I’ll do. I’m smart, talented, friendly & outgoing. I wasn’t exactly domesticated, but I know a thing or two about housework. Besides, I could read & write (fluently, mind you). I’m a good dancer, I speak in public fairly well, & my singing capability’s, uh, let’s just say I could hum a tune & leave it at that. I’m not flawless, but I don’t deem myself flawed, too. I’m just right.
I woke up one morning wearing only a sando & very short shorts (my usual sleeping attire). As always, the first thing I do is check my cellphone for any messages, then go to the kitchen for my breakfast, usually cereal & milk (hey, I’m a no-fuss girl). On the way to the kitchen, I usually pass a full-length mirror, but I barely bother looking at it because I’d wind up seeing myself & end up having nightmares at night (boy, I am a sight to behold in the morning). But that day, I caught sight of something jiggly & wiggly & couldn’t resist the urge of stopping & staring at my reflection.
There, right in front of me, between my legs, are two very unsightly saddlebags. I haven’t taken notice of them before (for fear of the nightmares), but there they were, hanging shamelessly on my thighs. I had the impulse of poking them, & then thought to myself, “Where did you guys come from?” The nitpick torture has begun.
Next came the sagging eyebags (due to late night texting & DVD marathons); the crooked smile (which I have audaciously displayed for the past 17 years); the peculiarly shaped handnails & toenails (owing to the excessive nail-biting, which I attribute to boredom); & the pot-belly (ok, so I’m exaggerating, maybe it’s just baby fat. But seriously, I’m so over breastfeeding; how come I still have baby fat? I’m not a baby anymore, at least physically).
Every single day my body goes through an inspection as stringent as the Inquisition of medieval times. It was as if my body was suspect to a crime, & I subjected it to relentless & arduous questioning: Where did I get that horrible zit? What did I do (or did not do) to get frizzy hair impossible to even slide a comb through without it getting lost in the tangles? How will I be able to save myself of that protruding front molar? Why is God punishing me? AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH!
When you’re in the middle of a crisis (if you ever do consider this a form of crisis at all; I do), you tend to compare what you’re going through with those around you. In this case, being able to recognize my defects made me remember those people I had blatantly (as well as discreetly) mocked due to their own imperfections. So THIS is how they felt. It was bad enough for them to know they had flaws; it must have been worse for them to have other people point them out & be laughed at. (It was a good thing I had my revelation during the summer; I didn’t have to go out & parade myself infront of people I know.) It was right, what Jules Renard said: “When the defects of others are perceived with so much clarity, it is because one possesses them oneself.”
I’m still flawed. I still have my deficiencies, defects, & faults. But they don’t bother me that much anymore (which obviously means I still get perturbed by them, but only when they get REALLY unsightly). I may have my limits, but in my eyes (& in the eyes of those who love & accept me wholly, despite the fact that I am a nuisance in their lives-just kidding), I'm satisfactory. I’ve learned to accept the truth: I am HUMAN, therefore I am imperfect. As what Patrice Lumumba said, “No one is perfect in this imperfect world.”
And, oh, just in case you’re wondering, the saddlebags are still there.
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