Self-Criticism Is A Female Flaw

My husband worries because he doesn’t think I eat enough. I
worry because I think I eat too much.

We are both aware of exactly what I eat so why do our judgments
vary so greatly?

It is partially a matter of goals. I want to be model-thin so
that I can wear the clothes I love and look just like the glossy
pictures in the catalogs. He wants me to be comfortable and
relaxed and could care less how much I weigh or what size I
wear. I suppose if I became humungous, he’d wince, but it would
probably require that I be clearly obese before he noticed.

Men give out such mixed signals. They profess their undying
devotion but scan every pretty or well-endowed female on the
street and read Playboy and other soft pornography, delighting
in seeing any woman in some level of nudity. Ask any happily
married man and he’ll admit he enjoys looking at other women but
has no interest beyond the occasional once-over when a female
form grabs his attention.

Women feed themselves equally mixed messages. We don’t believe
in casual looks, feeling driven to actively compete with whoever
captured our honey’s eye. We critique the pictures he enjoys,
pointing out the too-thick ankles, the pre-cellulite dimples,
the obviously collagen-enhanced lips, or the lack of class or
taste.

Men enjoy looking at women and are remarkably non-judgmental.
They appreciate the view for what it is and fail to notice the
minor defects we are supremely happy to enumerate.

Now if we could only learn to look at ourselves as uncritically
as men do! We look in a full length mirror and instead of
appreciating our assets, we groan with horror at our
shortcomings. We camouflage less than perfect legs with draping
pants or long skirts. We conceal a small bustline with vests and
overblouses. We add to our diminutive size by tottering on
platforms or stilettos. We cover aging skin with layers of
makeup and add extensions to give thinning hair length and
volume.

But underneath, we know exactly what we are. We stand in the
bathroom and stare at the creases in our skin, the lines in our
forehead, the swell between our hip bones. We grimace at every
flaw and hate the imperfections of heredity, genes, an unhealthy
lifestyle, and the ravages of time.

Then we wonder why we lack the self-confident manner of our male
coworkers, relaxed and comfortable in the bodies fates dealt
them, blissfully ignorant of their physical faults.

One day, we’ll get there – maybe.

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