Dove, Doors, and WHO AM I, REALLY?

Complete the following quote from the popular musical, West Side Story:

"I feel ______!" 

A. Pretty

B. Average

C. Pretty average

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You've probably seen at least one of Dove's Real Beauty Campaign videos: The one in which a rather typical looking woman is transformed (by means of multiple stylists, cosmetic products, and some Photoshop magic) into the sort of model we would normally see in advertising, or this depiction of women describing their own looks versus the much more positively described perceptions of others. I just saw their new segment involving a couple of signs (“Beautiful” and “Average”) labeling doors, and women choosing which door they enter. As would be expected, many women did not identify as “Beautiful,” and as such, chose to walk through the door marked “Average.” This simple act was foisted as a tragedy. I disagree.

While I agree that women should love themselves, I actually don't see feeling beautiful as a requirement to loving one's self. I certainly don't believe them to be synonymous. There is also the curious observation that my healthy perceptions of my own beauty are often indicative of the way I feel about myself overall, though not necessarily the other way around.

I'm not disputing the claim that we are all beautiful; I whole-heartedly support this idea. But in a world of such beautiful individuals, I believe the average (if we could model such objective concepts mathematically) to still be . . . beautiful. I find it perfectly acceptable that I identify with the status quo in a world where the standard level of loveliness is so high.

Besides, if there were multiple entry options, which door would each of us choose? Given my wide range of talents, abilities, and strengths (I've deactivated my sarcasm, so take me seriously!) I would not simplify my “me-ness” to be my outer shell—beautiful as it may be. Is that okay? Well, I'm okay with it, and around here, I make the rules. What I truly think and feel about myself when I'm alone is far more significant than an arbitrary door chosen when others were looking. A more telling choice than a publicly declared “Average” or “Beautiful” may be a privately determined “Beautiful,” “Compassionate,” “Creative,” “Intelligent,” (etc.) “All of the Above,” or “None of the Above.” Or, we could get right down to the heart of what we want to know—“Love myself,” or “What's there to love?”

This gets a bit deeper and grittier than the previously selected euphemisms, but if our goal is truly to find struggling women and help them feel good about themselves, why pretend? Let's do be real: If we want to make a change, there are more lasting and substantial ways to boost girls' and women's self-esteem levels (or, you know, anyone's—regardless of age or gender). Must all of our lifting be based on [feelings about] appearances? Let's sink our foundation deeper than that.

So we feel that our looks are average, or perhaps we think we're beautiful: Let us all walk through that door with confidence. I'm okay with whatever I may see when I look in the mirror because I know I am more than can be seen. With my average looks, my wit that exceeds expectations, and my satisfactory-level intelligence and kindness (among many other positive traits), I think I comprise a rather enjoyable package. I love me, and would invite you to do the same for yourself—regardless of the doors you may be walking through.

Hard Decisions: In Defense of the Vanilla I Have Chosen

I once had a teacher share a story about a sports team whose motto was “Vanilla. Choose the hard thing!” (or something like that). The saying was supposed to represent the difficulty in life when decisions have to be made. In an ice cream shop filled with many options, what's harder than skipping the extravagance and going for the plain, boring, and traditional vanilla? Sometimes those are the decisions that have to be made, right?

But there are people who actually like vanilla. On a recent trip to the store, my little sister was allowed to choose the ice cream. After looking over all the options, she opted for vanilla. As my mom and I teased her about how unacceptable vanilla was (“What sorts of choices will you make in your life if you can't even properly choose ice cream flavors?”) and she pretended she had made a hasty decision (“Cookies and cream? Yeah! I didn't even see that one!”), we went with the more interesting flavor and abandoned vanilla. But I could see by the look in her eyes that she really would have liked vanilla. After all, when you rarely get ice cream, even vanilla is a treat.

As a vanilla person myself, I understand this. And when I say I'm a “vanilla person,” I don't simply mean that I enjoy vanilla Frostys more than their original counterpart. I mean that I'm somewhat bland in comparison to some of the other people here in the ice cream shop of life. I don't skydive and live dangerously. I'm not gorgeous or famous. I'm not trying to cure cancer or rid the world of hunger because I've already accepted that those aren't the stars for which I'm shooting anymore.

It wasn't an easy conclusion. Like every child in America, I was raised on school assignments of “What Would You Do If You Were President of the United States?” and fantasies of becoming a pop star over night. Admitting my mediocrity in the world was tough—and I'm not saying this in a dejected, woe-is-me way. I'm just saying, in a matter-of-fact way, that I'm like everyone else. I mean, I think I'm cool, but it's just an average kind of cool. So, I gave up my more far-fetched ambitions of being a real-life princess-astronaut who moonlights as Bill Nye the Science Guy's assistant and “settled” for something rather vanilla by comparison that I had dreamed of doing far before anything else.

Thus, I became a mother. And I do believe that so far, it has rivaled my previous dreams for excitement, joy, and all-out flavor. The thing about vanilla ice cream, choices, and people is that we are flexible. We go well with chocolate syrup, birthday cake, and sprinkles. We do well in all sorts of circumstances, and no matter what the other options might have been. And as one who likes vanilla, I'm quite happy with the choice I have made, hard as it may have been. I've got all the sweetness I could ever want.

Great Expectations

I often find that big life events don't turn out much like I expected. They aren't necessarily awful, they just leave me wishing that I hadn't imagined them so much that I got a totally unrealistic idea of how they would be. I think the only time I wasn't let-down in my expectations was when I went to kindergarten.

When I was in the pre-kindergarten phase, I was obsessed with going to school. I would load the diaper bag with every book that I could and carry it to the front door to imagine that I was going to school. (Kudos to my mom for allowing me to string a trail of books to the front door on a regular basis. Also, for not ruining my fantasies by telling me about how truly awful school can be sometimes—say, as an eighth grader.) I found it unfathomable (“It means without fathom”) that I would ever be cool enough to go where the BIG kids go—the elementary school—let alone graduate from a university and be a mom. And yet here I am. How did this happen? It sort of went like this . . .

One day, I finally DID get to go to kindergarten. I put on my [empty] backpack, my mom took a picture of me, and I went to class. It. Was. Awesome. We decorated paper cutouts so they looked like us—and they were almost half my size! Mine had mismatched blue button eyes, approximately three strands of light brown yarn hair, and a scrap of fabric that I would guarantee would not adhere to the For Strength of Youth modesty guidelines, but I was so proud. Later, we rotated through several activities. We played with blocks, and there was a large plastic trough full of water that we got to dip toys in to play, and we listened to Raffi (you may know him for his masterpiece, “Down by the Bay”). It was so wonderful. The only problem was that apparently the book on tape about some pigs that we got to listen to had a song at the end, but my partner rewound the tape before we got to hear it. Other than that, it was just as great as I thought it would be. With promises of finger painting, the trough being filled with a new substance, and the thought that I would get to hear the pig song, I was looking forward to my next week of Kindergarten. Then we had our assessments, and it was determined that I was better suited for first grade. My kindergarten experience had come to an end.

First grade, though! It would be even better because most of my friends were there, anyway. I think as I pictured walking into my first day in Mrs. Munk's classroom, I envisioned that it would be something like the Arthur theme song: I would be surrounded by my teacher, my friends, and some other kids who would all say “Hey!” What a wonderful kind of day.

It wasn't like that, but it was still pretty good. I've found that most of the so-called “big” events in my life have been kind of like that. Not quite what I expected, but still good. A bit anti-climactic, but good. I expected something crazy important and big each school year. Then I would sometimes be disappointed and a bit surprised to discover that this year, like the last, was good. The same thing happened with my high school graduation. The whole bit seemed surreal, but when it was all over I found myself thinking “That's it?” And life went on with some ups and some downs, but really I just found that things were very much the same as they were when I was in high school, and so on.

I have since discovered that dating someone is very much like being single, except that you're dating someone. And when I got married, my wedding day was a very exciting, happy day that made my life after just that much better. I had many people ask how life was being pregnant. Well, it was a lot like life, but I was pregnant. Now I'm a mom, and I love it. However, with all the time spent thinking about what it would be like, I would think my dreams would share a bit more fidelity with my current reality. Much like I haven't noticed day-to-day differences in the mirror, I still don't feel like my life has changed until I look back through snapshots of time and discover there are major differences. I wouldn't trade my current situation for what I thought it would be, though. I don't think my reality's broken, I think it has to do with my expectations. Maybe I need to finish kindergarten and renew my imagination.

Hyperbole (and other perfectly acceptable ways to lie)

This is more for me than for anyone else. It's not a family blog where you will be inundated with pictures of what we have been up to. My [very large] family happens to be a very large part of my life, so they will naturally show up a lot. But this is just a way to keep myself writing and feeling like I have an audience.

I will warn you: I intend to write daily. As in, every day. It would be very misleading of me to pretend that this will be the best thing you read each day. Much of what you read will be first drafts. There will be some rough posts and--hopefully some better ones. Unlike most of the internet, I'm not going to tell you that this is the FUNNIEST blog you'll EVER read. My tagline will not be ''This girl got married and had a baby. What happened next will ASTOUND you!'' The internet has been crying wolf so long that we honestly don't care whether the wolf is real or how many sheep are being eaten. Wolves are an everyday occurrence.

I'm not a wolf, and I'm not a sheep. I'm an average person with an average blog. I honestly don't expect you to read every entry just because it's here.

. . . But if you come back tomorrow, I'll tell you about the event that single-handedly changed my perspective FOREVER. ;)