Image

Yesterday while waiting to have one of the vehicles inspected, Herself and I had one of those rare opportunities to peruse some "fashion" magazines and other similar rags. The images therein of what constitutes an attractive woman truly are astounding:  so very young; so surprisingly tall; incredibly long legs; wasp waists; exposure of as much of (rather surprisingly small) breasts as possible; flawless skin; mouths moist and perpetually ajar.  Glossy, lengthy, tousled hair. The shiniest of lipsticks. Arched cheekbones.  Eyelashes longer than camels' lashes. Brightly colored, sharpened fingernails somewhat resembling talons.  Clothing that cost enough to feed a family of four for months on end.

Impossible.  No one really is like that, are they?

It's not at all surprising that women in general so frequently despair about their bodies - so few are shaped similarly to the models who are portrayed.  It is one thing to "know" that the magazines show airbrushed, altered, idealistic images; it is another thing entirely to remain impervious to the unrealistic standards that are set forth.  "Never too rich, never too thin, never too young," seeps from every page.  Even the models portrayed in the articles about losing weight are svelte, toned and youthful.

What is a middle-aged, relatively plain, on the shortish- and roundish-side, ambivalent-to-fashion, woman to do?  There's a reason why Herself usually avoids the magazines.  She makes every effort to turn a blind eye to standards she knows she cannot meet.  Ever practical and realistic, she knows that she is as she is, and she does what she can with what she has. She tries to remember Kahlil Gibran's words:  Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.

Still, as she sets aside her bathing suit to pack for a weekend away just in case she feels inclined to fling herself into the pool, she cannot help but wish.  Just a little bit.