One of the most valuable lessons I have learned in my quite improbable life — and one that I have taught my two daughters and one son — has to do with the tricksy, slippery, bemusing nature of beauty.
Back when I was young, fresh, dewy, pubescent, and practically perfect in every way…I felt profoundly IMperfect and tragically flawed and NOWHERE NEAR our culture’s ruthless standard of female beauty.
And, now, all these many long years and many hard miles later, now that I really AM those things — PROFOUNDLY IMPERFECT and TRAGICALLY FLAWED — I gotta tell you…I feel LUMINOUS. Stunning. Dripping with pulchritude. When my husband lovingly takes my dual chins and accompanying whiskers into his adoring hands and gazes at my crepey face and tells me that I am beautiful…listen to me:
I FUCKING BELIEVE HIM.
Which is proof positive, Mein Poppets, that the truest, most authentic, most enduring beauty has NOTHING whatsoever to do with the taut of your tum, the flip of your nip, or what unfashionably hairied treasure dwells betwixt yo gottdamned legs.
Beauty isn’t about being The Prettiest Girl At Your School.
Beauty is about being THE FIERCEST GIRL IN THE FUCKING WORLD.
So, little sister: BE HER.