What is beauty?
Beauty can be difficult to describe. Maybe there's a formula for the perfect face, but I suspect many are chasing an ideal that simply does not exist. We exfoliate, refine and paint our faces to look younger.
Here's an idea. Perhaps we could try just looking like ourselves.
It amuses me when I see teenagers wearing make up. They don't need it, any of them, yet they plaster themselves in the stuff and spend ages getting dressed in their distressed tights, scuffed ballet-style pumps, battered corsages, pretty printed dresses and non-functioning cardigans. Their hair is back-combed to within an inch of its life. They hold a pink phone in one hand and a strawberry beer (with a straw) in the other.
Is youth wasted on the young? It's all relative, surely.
I can not understand the fascination with cosmetic surgery. It seems that most women over 40 in Hollywood all look the same. Botox, fillers and more, plumping up their faces until they look like they're wearing masks. To me, this is not beauty.
I'm not anti-make up. I wear it occasionally. If you meet me at an event, I'll be wearing my make up mask and hope that it hides my blushes and shyness. I could never be bothered to wear it - and take it off - every day.
Beauty is Andy's friend, K. Before I met her, Andy said that she had a light shining out of her. When I saw a vivacious joyful woman across a crowded graveyard, at a wedding, I knew this must be K. I was right.
Andy is beautiful, to me, inside and out. My children are the epitome of beauty. I'm sure they feel the same about me, so why do I not feel beautiful?
Probably because I am fat. I'm not a little overweight, I am big. People sometimes make comments when I walk down the street.
I actually feel self-conscious when I wear make up or dress up.
"You can't polish a turd."
"You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig."
I've just read that back and detected a hint of self-loathing. That's not attractive either.
I saw an advert today for a £59 set of eye-shadows. I wanted them. I wanted to buy them, bring them home, take them out of their (over)packaging and sniff them. I'm sure they smell expensive. Then I wanted to be 16 again. Forget the Rimmel rainbow eyes I created for an aerobics class in 1986 - my eyes matched my leg-warmers, I'll have you know. I fancy playing with eye-shadow now. I want to sit and watch The Apprentice with my face on. I want to create the Christian Dior vision of beauty with pink/gold eyes and glamorous lashes.
Why? Because I'm worth it and youth isn't wasted on the young and because I want to and because I am beautiful in every single way.
This post has been written as part of the Sleep is for the Weak Writing Workshop. This week I chose Prompt 3, On Beauty.