Recently a friend of mine had something like 200 pictures taken of her in a lush, green outdoor setting, her long wavy hair framing her deep-set eyes and her flushed cheeks, the sun setting through the trees all around her.
She looked amazing. In something like 150 of 200 photos, she looked so beautiful I felt teary, and not out of jealousy for once. Just adoration. She radiated joy.
She didn't like them. At first I was floored to hear that, but then I remembered: She's a chick. We do that.
When someone I see as beautiful doesn't see it, it hurts my heart. No; it feels like five hundred soccer players have torn my heart out and are practicing long kicks with it.
Yet I'm not surprised she didn't like the photos. Most of us don't know our own beauty. My own self-loathing feels perfectly justified until I see other women I love do that to themselves, then I realize we're all just encouraging each other to self-hate.
By self-hating ourselves.
"What are you up to today, Buffy?"
"I'm going to an 8 o'clock Zumba, then I'm going to self-hate myself for a while."
"Good idea! I mean about the self-hating. Zumba is too bouncy."
If I tell you you're beautiful, believe me. Here's why. Because I'm going to define it for you, and you'll see that my logic is IMPENETRABLE. This goes for the men in my life, too.
First off, if I say you're beautiful, it does NOT mean the following: