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Location: Work.
Listening: "Duvet" (Serial Experiments lain remix) by BOA.

It's March. My birthday is in twenty-one days. I'll be twenty-six years old. I'm trying not to think too much about this fact.

I've been uncharacteristically quiet concerning the latest events in 1260. I'm not sure if I really have much to add to what Peter has already described. Perhaps, when I've had more time to sit and think it through, I will. At the moment, I'm not sure.

Currently, I'm thinking about said recent events, but in a slightly different way than one might expect. While the recent explosions of honesty and photography in 1260 have accelerated Peter and I into a completely different (and more advanced, IMO) stage of relating to one another, like the process of a rocket separating, some components must be shed along the way. One of these components, unfortunately, seems to have been a great deal of my self-esteem as it relates to my physical appearance.

I've spent the past two weeks being photographed more often than at any other time in our relationship, save the very beginning, and, after seeing the most recent batch of images, I had the sudden realization that I no longer consider myself physically attractive. Perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration. I consider myself "odd looking" or (as was the term most often used to describe me when I was young) "striking" (note: this is the way that Southerners express "I wouldn't pick you out of a crowd, but I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers"). Some people consider "odd looking" attractive. Others do not. Personally, for me, it very much depends on what one means by "odd" and, currently, what I perceive as being "odd" about myself is simply not cutting it.

Like many women, I've been fighting with self-esteem issues in relation to physical appearance for the better part of my life. I very clearly remember the first time I thought about my appearance in a critical manner: my mother was helping me with flashcard vocabulary words in second grade. She paused between cards, looked at me strangely, and then said "You're going to be beautiful.". After a very lengthy pause, I ran into her bathroom and examined my face carefully. I've been doing so ever since.

Later that same year, a girl in my grade named Lee, who also happened to have been my worst nightmare since my first day of school (she was the leader of the group of six girls in my grade, I was a confirmed tomboy and, well, we never got along), jumped out of her swing as I was walking past and landed with her shoe planted squarely on my nose. I spent the rest of the day in intense pain, bleeding slightly, but refusing to reveal how badly it hurt because of my extreme fear of doctors. Years later, my orthodontist asked when I had broken my nose. I looked at him blankly. He explained that my nose had clearly been broken and then allowed to heal incorrectly, throwing it off-center and compromising the turned-up quality that had gotten many compliments when I was younger. My mother was outraged and hinted broadly that this had been intentional on Lee's part. I knew enough to roll my eyes at her, but she remained convinced that this incident had, effectively, ruined my face and, to this day, encourages me to get my nose "fixed", ostensibly for medical reasons (the accident also left me with a severely deviated septum, which causes sinus problems). I've admittedly wavered on this on several occasions, as I've often wondered what I would have looked like without my crooked nose, but the details of the surgical process as well as the fact that my voice and appearance would change significantly, have always given me pause. I might not necessarily like the girl I see in the mirror in the mornings, but at least I recognize her.

There were other factors from my childhood that were instrumental in shaping my notions of what is and is not attractive in relation to myself. I trained in ballet, tap, jazz, and modern dance from the time I was barely three until I was about twelve. During this time, I had yearly recitals, and my parents' photo albums are replete with pictures of me at 3, 4, 5, and on wearing tights, tulle, and several layers of stage makeup. There's one particular photo of myself, a headshot of me at about seven, with long straight hair, shiny pink lip gloss, and a royal blue feather boa around my very bare shoulders. I'd never thought much of it or its implications until I read about Jon-Benet Ramsey. I still try not to think too much about them, as my memories of those days are largely pleasant. I loved dancing, being on stage, lights, and huge auditoriums. I loved performing, so much so that, after I quit dancing, I went on to act in middle and high schools and major in Theatre (taking dance and choreography classes every semester) for two years in college.

I quit dancing for two reasons: I had become bored with the routine of lessons every other day after school and I had been told that I simply would not be able to advance very far as a dancer. The latter decision was based largely on my body type. At twelve, I was about 5'3" and a 36B-C with about 10-15 extra pounds of baby fat. I was by no means lithe and a very far cry from Paloma Herrera or Allegra Kent. I was too short, too curvy, and too...everything...to continue in ballet with any realistic purpose. Had I been better in tap, I might have had a future as a hoofer, but the idea held no appeal. I left ballet and, a few years later, began riding horses. I transitioned from carefully balancing my weight on the barre to coaxing large animals to jump over fences with mainly my calf muscles and a prayer. I felt like I had moved from synchronized swimming to sumo, and, especially as my legs became more muscular and my trainer commented on my broad shoulders, I started to perceive a similar shift in my view of my appearance. I began to regard myself as stocky and capable, but certainly not graceful. Combine this perception with a mouthful of braces, a pronounced lisp, and the still-lingering 10-15 pounds, and you get a fourteen year old trainwreck of insecurity.

At sixteen, I lost the braces (and, with them, the lisp) and the 10-15 pounds. Thus began something of a golden age in my adolescence, as I did the whole duckling-swannish-type creature routine, although I never fully made it to swan. More like a wood duck, really. Dated, did a lot of interesting things in the backseat of a '65 Mustang, got engaged, went to college a year early. I was intelligent, semi-popular, and, for the first time, considered "pretty". In the words of Sinatra: "It was a very good year".

During my freshman year of college, I met a boy, moved in with him, and left my fiance. I won't go into the details, but suffice to say that the person I moved in with decided that it would be the best thing for me if someone taught me that life isn't always fair. At least, this was the excuse he used when he began criticizing me constantly. Over the course of six months, he managed to carefully demolish everything I had built up esteem-wise in four years. I was held up and compared constantly (and never favorably) with other women when we walked on campus together. I was berated for gaining ten pounds, then for not having red hair, then for turning eighteen. On my birthday, I was told that I was getting "old and boring". By the end of my freshman year, he was headed to England for his Master's, and I was back where I started from, mentally, at the age of fourteen.

Fast forward to the present, where, after dealing with this person, and then later involvements who did everything from openly pine after Asian women to offer to buy me breast implants for Christmas, I've finally managed to regain much of my lost esteem. Well, theoretically, anyway. I now realize that there is no excuse for emotional abuse and will not brook it from anyone, although I do give my parents a little more slack than I should. However, after spending eight years never really having been the physical ideal of anyone I've been involved with (and being keenly aware of it in each case), I've developed a philosophy that is very rigid regarding my appearance and, when I step outside of it in any way, I go to great lengths to smack myself back in line, as it were. The philosophy centres around the idea that, if you know that you're not the first choice physically to begin with, you have to work twice as hard...in everything. Granted, physical appearance is not and should not be the be all and end all of one's relationships, but I've learned from experience with constantly hearing about how I'm not the ideal, but I'll do, that even a few extra pounds or a bad haircut can throw off a very delicate balance. Whether or not they want to admit it, men tend to be primarily visual creatures, and have the capability to lose interest in something that is no longer visually appealing in about five seconds. Do I think this is acceptable in a relationship where people are supposed to care about each other based on emotional and intellectual ties? No. Do I think it's acceptable to condone this behavior and pander to it by always pressuring myself to appear pulled-together and pretty and confident? No. Do I, after years of having people dismiss me out of hand and toy with me emotionally for falling just short of being exactly what they wanted, still do this? Yes. Is this unhealthy and potentially destructive? Yes. So why do I do it?

I do it for the same reason I think many women do it. We've been programmed to equate love with positive attention, affection, encouragement, and all of those things that the human animal craves. When I was little, my parents made it very clear that they did not believe in unconditional love--that love had to be earned, in my case by making good grades and being what they had worked so hard to have me become. This has, of course, proved very problematic in my adult life, but I deal, and try to understand, although it continues to cause me pain. This attitude has been repeated in the majority of my relationships--"if you look like what I've always wanted, I will give you more attention (ie I will love you more)". Now, whether or not this is actually true or simply the way things would appear (as, according to the above logic, more attention of any kind equates to more love), I'm not sure. I have been told by some that it is a correct correlation. I am no longer with these people.

To answer the obvious question, Peter has made it clear that, despite the way I look, I would still have my eyes, my ears, and my self--all of the things that he truly finds attractive about me. However much I understand his approach, as it is mine as well (I've never truly cared about the appearance of my boyfriends, which has caused me to come under fire from time to time, but I fell for my first boyfriend in high school after he spent three months writing me letters and calling--we didn't meet until long after we were "together"), but something in my nature tells me that I never want to be a "despite". I know that I am a deviation from his usual "type"--which is more athletic, smaller breasted, etc.--and so desire to somehow "make up for it" by being as attractive, funny, intelligent, etc. as I can be. It's a reflex action. Do I think he'll leave me if I'm not perfect? No. Do I think that he regrets being with me? No. However, something in me drives me to make him happy that he chose something other than his usual preference. It's an echo of the ones who told me "you're really intelligent and really interesting, but...". I hate that "but". It has a power over me that I cannot fully explain, but that can cause me pain like nothing else is capable of doing. It's what makes me deeply insecure when I notice a grey hair or a line by my eye or a crease in my skin in these recent photos. It's what makes me determined to lose the extra few pounds I've gained over the last months and to start taking better care of myself. In that way, I suppose, there are benefits. In other ways, it holds me hostage.

It also boils down to the fact that I inwardly despise the way I'm built. I'm 5'6", 36C-26 or 27-36, and somewhere between 125-135 pounds. Dependant on the day and my mood, I either have an "hourglass figure" or am built like a Ripper-era Whitechapel whore. In this world of Gwyneth Paltrow and other sleek media images, I always feel overdone. Due to their popularity, women's clothing has been downsized to suit longer torsos and smaller breasts. I'm constantly having to wear size 10 shirts with my size 6 or 8 pants to accomodate my chest, and it annoys me no end. A saleswoman in Express told me that tops had been downsized to "suit the new average American figure". I informed her that, statistically, the average American woman is a size 14. She was a 5 foot nothing Asian girl baring her navel in low-rider jeans. She stared.

An ex of mine once told me, in a very wistful tone, "you were born to wear corsets" (he is a Goth boy who puts a great deal of store in such things). I cocked an eyebrow, and he explained that it was a compliment. I have a nineteenth century figure in a twenty-first century world. While I know that some people would bitch slap me for complaining, it can honestly be very depressing to feel like you just don't fit into the definition of "pretty", no matter what size you are or what that definition is.

My mother was a beauty when she was younger. She was 5', 34D-24-34, and about 100 pounds. She has big eyes like mine, everyone compared her to Natalie Wood, and she was photographed for many "Fraternity Row Sweetheart" spreads in her college newspaper. We still have the clippings in the same photo albums as my dance pictures. I think one of her great hopes was that I would grow up to surpass her in that category that was always so important to her--physical beauty. She envies my height, and the thickness of my hair, but otherwise, I think I've failed her somehow. I think it started with the broken nose and continued with my refusals to wear makeup (borne of my days dancing, when I learned to hate the stuff) in my college days, and my habit of dyeing my hair every color under the sun. At this point, she expresses gratitude that I "finally dress like a normal human being". That's something, I suppose. My father has said once that I'm a "very attractive girl". He hasn't spoken beyond that, but it was reassuring, in a way. Peter has nicknamed me "the lemur" because of my eyes. I've never really liked being compared to rodentia, but I know he means it to be an endearment, so I accept it as such. I also, apparently, make a great live-action anime character, to the point that my friend Scott has dubbed one of my looks (the one reserved for policemen pulling me over and moments of great amazement), "the anime". All of these little things help.

So, as I've regarded these pictures from the past few days, I've rediscovered a great deal of self-loathing that I thought I had discarded years ago. I'm fighting it, as I'm used to, but I have been forced to re-think my definitions of beauty (embodied by Alicia Witt, Angelina Jolie, and Gillian Anderson) and the application of those definitions to myself. It's going to take some time, still, before I see myself as something other than a very flawed girl trying to keep up appearances. However, considering that Peter's initial pictures of me when we met did a great deal to reverse that mindset, I have hope that a similar reversal will occur. Until then, I paddle furiously and hope that nothing shows on the surface.