Miss Imperfectly Fine

I refuse to get my asshole bleached.

Okay, so it's not like anyone has ever actually pressured me to get my asshole bleached (although my butt did feel a little called out by that scene in Bridesmaids), but it's the principle of the thing. Bleached assholes are a societal development that I refuse to entertain.

I won't deny that a bleached anus looks better than a natural one. But it's just a step too far. On top of hair, makeup, clothes, and accessories, I'm now supposed to care about the color of my butthole? And I'm supposed to spend money to have it altered? No, thank you.

Anal bleaching is just one of the many beauty practices I've rejected as excessive and unnecessary. I've never gotten my nails done; they're little stubs of various lengths, unpainted and unkept. The only things I've ever had waxed are my eyebrows. No need for lip injections; my thin, natural smacker is just fine. (Seriously, I have Kylie Jenner's real lips.)

Maybe it's the result of all those months in quarantine, but I just don't care that much about my appearance these days. And keeping up with the progressively insane beauty practices our society comes up with just seems like a lot of painful, pointless, expensive work.

Intellectually, I know that fashion and beauty have value in society and can give people a sense of confidence and individuality. It's a form of self-expression. I respect that, and I admire the hell out of women who can pull it all off.

But emotionally, I just cannot seem to manifest a single fuck to give about fitting in and looking chic myself.

To some extent, it just feels like a lost cause. A hopeless endeavor. My sisters are gorgeous, and I'm, well... not. There's not much point in getting all dolled up when you come out looking like a potato anyway.

And it doesn't help that I don't have the slightest clue what I'm doing. I can't make that perfect wing with my eyeliner. At 27 years old, I've still never successfully curled my hair (Don't be deceived by my profile picture; I had it professionally done for my sister's wedding.). I have no idea how to buff my nails or what that's even supposed to do for them. I don't know how to put outfits together or match things, and I can't walk in heels without wobbling around like a newborn giraffe.

So even if I tried to emulate the perfect women I see on Instagram, there's no way I could.

But it's too much. These days, I'm expected to plump my lips, make my lashes more voluminous, contour my nose and cheeks, wax myself porpoise-smooth, and, apparently, lighten the orifice from which shit exits my body just so it'll be more aesthetically pleasing for my gynecologist (the only person who's going to see it).

And the money. Women spend hundreds of dollars on manicures, tans, eyelash extensions, and waxes. Every time I see my sisters' perfectly shaped acrylics, I just wonder how many meals that money could have bought, how many textbooks, what kinds of luxurious vacations it could fund.

I support women doing whatever makes them feel confident. There was a time when I loved nothing more than to spend the day pampering myself and get decked out from head to toe for a night of bar-hopping and tormenting my exes. Dressing up can be fun and has a positive impact on one's confidence and attitude. When you look good, you feel good.

But sometimes I worry we've gone too far. All of these beauty practices are fine when they're optional, but it's beginning to feel like society demands perfection. It's crazy how much women are expected to do to be considered attractive, professional, or sexy. It's unreasonable.

And the double standards! Men don't have to rip their eyebrows out of their foreheads, no matter how bushy they are. Boys aren't expected to learn the complicated art of makeup. A guy has a mustache, it's classy; I grow one, and I'm expected to throw some hot wax on it and yank.

Sometimes it seems as if these advancements in beauty are more harmful than empowering, especially when they're spurred on by negative forces like misogyny and social media. My sister will talk about how bad she looks when she hasn't had her eyelashes done in a while, or when her tan starts to fade. But she looks amazing to me.

(And I just sit there with my stubby lashes, pale as all hell, like... If you think you look gross, what do you see when you look at me?)

I confess, I let myself go long before quarantine. But months of having no reason to even attempt to meet these ridiculous standards left me wondering why I bother dealing with them at all. Life's too short for me to waste time and hard-earned money on temporary improvements to my physical appearance. It's just not that important to me.

Not caring about my looks has been liberating. I am able to prioritize the things that really matter to me, and I'm learning to accept my flaws and be comfortable in my natural skin. Everyone else's focus on outward appearance makes me think that maybe I should be more worried about my own, but I just can't seem to care. I feel imperfectly fine.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, click the ❤.

And stream "Mr. Perfectly Fine (Taylor's Version)", a total bop that was stuck in my head when I came up with the title of this story.

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