Lying is really easy, disgustingly so at times. But even more than it is a fleeting trick, lying is unhealthy. Especially if you're lying to yourself at the same frequency that you're misleading others with the things you say and the way you behave. So, I'm going to be honest with myself for a change.
My eternal quest is to not just find happiness, but to find it exclusively within myself. You should see all the self-love quotes that decorate all 12 of my journals and occupy the back of my door in Post-It form. My living space literally looks like a scene out of Being Mary Jane. I know that in order to attract love in my life, I must be totally okay and in love with myself first. But honestly, honestly, a huge factor in my self-love quest is my body and loving that. It's... okay. I don't hate it. It could be much worse, but I don't love it. It's functional and, as far as I know, has gotten the technical thumbs up from my doctors, but I don't love it. I have the full activity of my limbs and have no desires to surgically enhance my body (with the exception of a breast reduction if I wasn't so scared I won't be able to breastfeed when motherhood comes knocking). But "love" is not something that comes to mind when I consult my mirror. I'm not blind to my flaws yet. They're right there in neon lights that only I can see. I'm still struggling to take me as I am.
Unfortunately, the body I envision fashionably and try to dress up and shop for is not reflected back to me. My boobs are the lone victims of gravity (and unnecessary attention) in my friend circles, so no strapless garments and braless days for me ever. No nipple can be freed, sorry. There was no turning back from the dreaded Freshman 15, even four years plus post-graduation. I know when and where my second chin shows up, but I can't seem to master that hiding angle—you know, the one I've previously nailed in selfies—in public or in any other photo not taken by my elevated hand. There are back rolls that did not exist a few years ago, and the persistent skinny-fat fupa always interrupts how my jeans fit at the buckle. I'm tall and lean-looking, meaning curveless except for my chest. No sensual or even mildly switchable hips. No shapely, stallion runner thighs. No tight, naturally cinched waist over here. No phatty, no bubble butt, no nada. A capital P, basically. My feet are big and forever ruined from just a handful of years of tap class (damnit!), so I have to be real selective with sandals. RIP to whatever smooth and spotless skin I had before the stress of 2016 hit me like a billion bricks. I'm still trying to overcome some body hyper-pigmentation and scarring issues. I have this stupid bump on my thumb that came from sucking it up until I got braces in fourth grade. The only things I said I loved about my physical self this year were, oddly enough, my quirky bowed legs—I'm so happy that I didn't notice that they were significantly different from other peoples' legs until right before college, no exaggerations here—and my hair. And I still have my insecurities about certain hair things that I cloak very, very well. Hairstyles I still haven't tried out, and probably won't, because of it.