The world's beauty spyglass sucks. I like mine better.

Here's a fact that will not be in the least bit surprising. I can count the parts of my body that I like on one hand.

1) I like my collarbones.
2) I like my eyes.
3) I like the color of my hair.
4) I like my wrists.

That's all. Four things. Name any other body part and I could tell you what's wrong with it. It's mostly to do with my skin--I am a lump of stretch marks and red scars and the hills and valleys of cellulite that are a testament to my love of pastry and lack of exercise. I am rightfully ashamed of my blotchiness, my skin being so white that the transparency leaves me veiny blue. My chest, shoulders, and back are a canvass of spot constellations.  I already have the beginnings of varicose veins on my legs. I am not noticeably chubby around my middle because I hold my stomach in all the time, but if I didn't do that I would look a couple of months pregnant. Which wouldn't be so bad. If I were pregnant. But I'm not. So it's bad.

I could continue. But there's an actual thing I want to say besides I don't really like how I look. The truth is, I would be perfectly happy with my body if I didn't feel I had to fix my stretch marks and my flabby legs and my man fingers to be acceptable. I wish I didn't feel like the world shudders whenever I wear a pair of shorts or go out without make up. And to a certain extent I have the ability to not care about the public's preferences when it comes to a woman's body, but in the end I would like my appearance to translate how I feel. I feel beautiful when I don't have to look in a mirror or go outside. The world, however, only sees beautiful in a certain way, so to get that sentiment across I have to fit in with everyone else's standard of beauty. It kind of sucks. But there it is. At least there are four things about myself that I'm proud of.