The 11th Anniversary of My Plastic Surgeries

Please God make me pretty.

But God is for the poor. The rich can go to sleep and wake up pretty.

Rip
Cut
Suck
Tuck
Nip
Perk
Sew
Scar

And into little jars went the woman I was meant to be. 

Twenty-six thousand dollars worth of self-esteem plastered onto me forever, and no more t-shirts at the beach. No more hiding in the bathroom during pictures. No more getting asked out as a joke.

Drip
Drop
Splash
Shh


Eleven years later, I still taste like plastic.

Tell Me I'm Beautiful

It takes a lot of strength to be the one to tell myself I am beautiful. It is one of the hardest parts of being single. When there's someone else telling me I'm gorgeous, then I don't have to, and it doesn't take any effort to boost my self-esteem. But when there's no one there saying out loud, You're beautiful, I don't get to hear it, and when I don't hear something for long enough, it becomes more difficult to maintain it as a truth. If I'm the only one telling myself I'm pretty, then is it still true? 

I do my hearts meditation, I go to my sexy feminine fitness class, I give myself goddess-like treats, I dress up and make it a point to fall in love with the reflection in the mirror. I do all that. I am skilled at observing my mind's patterns and cultivating positivity. But I can't be another person, I can't fabricate eyes that look at me and see my beauty, I can't bring to life a being that tells me what they see. Loving myself, while being of utmost importance, is not like being loved by another.

Will it ever be enough to just hear it from myself? I don't know. I sometimes wonder if I am strong enough to go on for much longer without meeting a fella who can tell me, You're the prettiest girl in the room. It sounds so silly and small, but it's so not. Not for me. I come to life when I am loved and wanted. I am strengthened by love. My inner glow multiplies when someone else sees me as truly beautiful. And I suspect I am not alone in this.

I am talking about love and inner beauty, yes, but I am also talking about plain superficial beauty too. The first look and the glimmer in the eyes that goes with it. Ah, how I miss that. The right guy will see it, my friends say. He'll know how lucky he is. I have good friends, and it's not that I doubt my looks or that I am attractive to men, but you know- I'd like to have someone around to tell me so.

I don't want people to know this about me. I rather be seen as confident and self-assured, a woman who doesn't need to be told by a man that she is good-looking. But I cannot be that strong all the time. I am human, after all, and I am seeking to be loved. For now, I am the one cheering my ego on. But when I haven't got anything left to say to myself and I am sitting in silence, I can hear it, deep inside me: the need. Tell me I'm beautiful.

Vanity and I

Ours is a love story, like so many before it, rooted in an external search for acceptance, completion, and happiness. Abusive at times, melodramatic at others, and full of resentment and bitterness, Vanity and I have had a turbulent relationship.

At 16.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I was always manicured, pedicured, waxed, exfoliated, cleansed, starved, tucked, lifted, firmed, smoothed, and glossed. My hair was always long, my clothes were always form-fitting and feminine, and my perfume was whatever the magazine told me was a man's favorite scent on a woman. If my hands were dry or my lips chapped, I'd be embarrassed, and I'd never dare take my shoes off if I was overdue for a pedicure.

Vanity was with me every single day. And for as long as there was enough money, there were solutions to everything. Needles could smooth out stretchmarks, electric shocks could stop hair from growing where it shouldn't, surgeries could lift, tuck, and sew in anything that wasn't in place. Pills could make me stop eating. She had an answer for everything.

I did not think she would ever leave me, and I certainly did not think I would ever leave her. 

When a teacher quite forcefully told me that if I wanted to be an actor I had to get messy, dirty, ugly, and, above all, let go of my vanity and ego, I was baffled. Like a slave born into a life of unquestionable servitude, blind to the absurdity of her circumstances, I was suddenly made aware of my binding chains.

At 22.

I cut off my hair. I stopped getting my nails done. I bought a dozen yoga pants. I set my make up, stomach-gripping jeans, and heels to the back of my closet. And I started eating french fries.

In order to set myself truly free, I had to let go of Vanity completely. I had to break up with her, and I was very, very angry. I was ready to break mirrors and burn bras, such was the depth of my pain. You trapped me, chained me, butchered me, controlled me, and erased me. I want nothing to do with you, ever again.

She complied. She left me alone. And I was so happy to find the freedom within stretchy pants, flats, messy short hair, and unpainted uneven nails, that I did not miss her at all. It was a blissful time, and I did grow tremendously as an actor. Vanity murders creativity. For the next couple of years, I was unstoppable.

But I was not done growing. We never are. 

It was a group of actor friends that next freed me when they proposed, gently, that I indulge in my vanity, flaunt my femininity and sexiness, and invite a little ego back. Again, I felt a light turn on in a dark room within me. In my complete negation of Vanity, I did not realize she was still controlling me. I feared her so fiercely, I never considered that we could have a healthy, balanced relationship.

As I had done years earlier when I dispelled Vanity completely, I was ready to take on the challenge of welcoming her back for the sake of my growth as an actor. 

I have been taking slow, cautious steps every day towards discovering what feels good to me, what I like indulging in, and what daily doses of Vanity I can take. I felt my hair touch my shoulder the other day and was surprised by how much I liked the feeling of it. I dug up my eyeliner from its grave and played with different ways to bring attention to my eyes. I looked at each part of my body and asked myself, How do I celebrate this body part's beauty? 

It is no coincidence that The Body Stories emerged at the same time. I am telling stories that I hope inspire others to find a peaceful relationship with their bodies. It was time I worked on mine. 

I know Vanity is not a real person who forced me to do things I didn't want to. I know that when I talk of Vanity I am talking about a relationship I had with myself in pursuit of an ideal. But sometimes it's too hard to look at myself, to touch the parts of my body I have butchered, and not want to blame it on an external source.

Here we are, Vanity and I, with our loaded past, working on our relationship. And it does take work. I'd be lying if I said she were no longer a threat, and that our relationship is always healthy and balanced. I am still mostly afraid of her. When I spend 45 minutes on my hair, I have to make sure, every other minute, that I am doing this because I want to. And, when I wear yoga pants for five days in a row, I have to check that I am not avoiding her. But, step by step, we are figuring each other out, and I am a little bit closer to true freedom.

At 26.

The Body Stories

Alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, a fellow Actors Studio Drama School MFA graduate and boundlessly inventive artist, I have created my upcoming theater production, The Body Stories. A year in the making, and a lifetime in my heart, we are now producing this physical theater meets live art show that lets our bodies tell their stories. After all, we believe our bodies know more than we do. We are scheduled to perform on January 22nd, 2012, in Manhattan, and we are thrilled to share this rendition of our work with you! 

I struggled from an early age with body image issues. As a teenager in Brazil, the pressure from the media, the society I lived in, and the people around me skewed my perception of myself, to the point where I had three plastic surgeries by the age of 15, battled eating disorders, and underwent countless dangerous, expensive, and painful procedures in order to attain what I perceived as real beauty. Having survived my turbulent adolescent angst and violent insecurities, I arrived at adulthood with a new task: understanding my past and finding compassion for how I treated myself over those years. The arduous road ended at the expected destination: self-love and self-acceptance.

That I lived to tell this story is not something I take for granted. I know that body image issues are present in the lives of most teenagers and adults, especially women, and I feel in my heart that I have a responsibility to tell my story. I have found an artistic expression to my innermost scars with The Body Stories, and it is the most important piece of theater I have worked on to date. It is a message I am carrying because I have to; this story lives inside me, and it always will.

Jeanne Joe and I are driven by our love of theater and our need to tell these stories; that is our compensation. But, as you surely know, our production cannot go up on love alone. We are committed to creating this show with the lowest possible budget, with a goal of raising $1500 by November 1st, 2011. We are now requesting the contribution of our friends and families in making this project possible. Donations start at $10, and every penny helps us!

Your contribution is the lifeline of this production, and we are grateful for all donations of any monetary amount. Please visit our indigogo fundraiser website to make a donation and learn more about The Body Stories.

http://www.indiegogo.com/The-Body-Stories


Our gratitude for any and all donations is infinite. We cannot do what we do without your generous support. Please share our fundraiser campaign on your social media sites and help us promote this project.

To learn more about The Body Stories and find out ways to be involved, please feel free to contact us. If your body, too, has a story to tell, do not hesitate in reaching out to us. We are here to serve the material that already lives within us, and there are no limits to how much this project can grow.

The Body Image Project

I made this collage today for my Body Image Project. If you have any reactions, I'd love to hear them. It's a theater piece in development.

Femininity and Feminism Meet for Coffee

In my head, Femininity and Feminism meet at a cafe to talk every once in a while. They need to clarify some stuff. Here's how it usually goes down...

Feminism: Hello, Femininity.

Femininity: Hello, Feminism. I admit I'm scared to have this chat.

Feminism: Really? Why?

Femininity: I'm scared you hate me.

Feminism: Why would you think a thing like that?

Femininity: Because I shave my legs and blow-dry my hair straight and pluck my eyebrows and wear make-up and high-heels.

Feminism: And you think I disapprove of such behavior?

Femininity: Well, yeah... I mean, at the very least, you disapprove that I do it to fit in to social standards of female beauty.

Feminism: Is that what you do?

Femininity: Not always, but often. Like, sometimes, I wear a skirt, and it's just because I want men to look at my legs. I do want to look good for my sake, of course, but I also care about what other people think, and I care about being attractive to men. And not scaring people.

Feminism: So you think I don't care what people think, or about being attractive to men, or about scaring people?

Femininity: Yeah. Isn't that the case?

Feminism: Not always. I wear skirts too. And I like to be admired. And I worry about scaring people.

Femininity: You do?

Feminism: No one likes being compared to nazis or being asked if they've burnt their bra yet. As far as I'm concerned, all females are feminine, and all females are feminists, whether they know it or not. A woman with short hair who wears flats and doesn't pluck her eyebrows can still be feminine. A woman with long, blow-dried hair who gets a manicure every week and wears heels can still be a feminist.

Femininity: But there are stereotypes...

Feminism: Sure, they make it easier for us to talk about each other.

Femininity: But you don't wear things in order to fit into social standards of beauty, do you?

Feminism: Sometimes, I do, yes. Just because not shaving one's armpits works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. On the same token, just because wearing a dress works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. Once upon a time, women didn't get to decide what worked for them or what didn't. What we fight for is a world where no one feels obligated to look a certain way.

Femininity: How do you know if you feel obligated or not?

Feminism: You are conscious of the choices you make regarding your appearance, aren't you?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: And you're conscious of when you do things because you feel you have to, or in order to get a certain result or reaction?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: Then there's no reason for me to hate you. With consciousness, we have a choice. Without it, we are robots. As long as you're not a robot, we're not rivals.

Femininity: So you don't think it's bad that I spend an hour and a half on my hair every morning and hundreds of dollars on beauty products every month?

Feminism: I think it's bad if you think it's bad. If it bothers you, then it bothers me.

Femininity: I'm not sure yet if it bothers me or not.

Feminism: Then I'd say it's your responsibility to find out.

Femininity: Okay. So we're cool?

Feminism: Yeah, we're cool.

They smile at each other, sip their lattes, and live happily ever after.

Image from here.

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

Last week, I updated my facebook status with the following post:

"For the first time in 15 years, I wore a bikini at a Brazilian beach and, not only did I not feel fat, I actually felt GOOD about my body. Thanks to Alexandra for introducing me to affordable yoga at Laughing Lotus, Sarah for introducing me to Shaklee, and my brother for teaching me his work-out as well as living with me and buying me yogurt and soy milk. =)"

The post got a bunch of comments, likes, and private messages. A lot of so happy for you's and tell me more's. It was a true statement. I did feel good about my body, and it registered as a completely new feeling. I attributed it to the things I mentioned, but there was also a smaller factor that played a part in how I felt. It seemed like a little thing, but it was actually tied to something so big I decided it had to be a blog post rather than a facebook status update.

This small thing that made a difference in how I felt about my body was a big bikini.

When I planned this trip, it involved going to the beach with my then-boyfriend. As I thought about going to a beach in Brazil with him, I felt my stomach sink. Going to a beach in Brazil has always been a really intimidating experience. I was faced with not only my own insecurities about my body, but also the comparison to hundreds of near-perfect beautiful female bodies in tiny bikinis all around me. I hadn't gone to the beach here with a boyfriend in many many years, and now my insecurities tripled at the thought of it. So, when I was here in December, I went shopping for a bikini that might hide some of my cellulite and help mask my love handles. I always wore pretty small bikinis here (never thongs! just small), because that's what girls my age wore, and because I knew that most men thought smaller tan lines were sexier. Those small bikinis, however, tended to leave my cellulite exposed and cut at my waist-line, accentuating my love-handles rather than minimizing them. I figured that if I starved myself until March and had a bikini that helped me hide my "flaws," I wouldn't spend my whole time at the beach wondering if I looked like a whale next to all those model-like bodies, and fearing that my boyfriend would be turned off by my body. I was furious at myself for having these thoughts and insecurities, but I couldn't help it. They were bigger than me. It was actually easier and took less energy to try and "fix" them than to tell myself how absurd and unreal they were. I started losing weight and I bought a new bikini.

I never thought I'd actually feel good about my body. Feeling good about my body seemed like a far-off fantasy. A land I'd never ever reach. While I strove to reach my "ideal body," I always believed it would never be possible. I would never be thin enough. I would never feel good in a bikini. I only ever thought I'd feel less bad.

But I did lose weight. After my break-up, I lost my appetite, so it was easier. I dove into yoga, started a nutrition program, and focused on my body. It did feel good. When I got to Brazil a week and a half ago, I felt better about my body than I had in a long, long time. But if I had worn one of my tiny bikinis, I would still have felt uncomfortable. The realization dawned on me as I took my dress off at the beach. For the first time in my life, I didn't immediately start adjusting my bikini as soon as I was exposed. I didn't fuss with the top to make sure it covered my breasts in a way that didn't leave any fat hanging from the sides- this bikini was big enough to hold everything in. I didn't keep pulling the back of my bottom piece out in a futile attempt to cover up more of my butt- this bikini was already in place. And I didn't pull at the strings on the side to make sure they were as loose as possible so as not to cut into my sides- this bikini didn't have strings, and it didn't divide my mid-section into top blubber and bottom blubber. I was actually comfortable in this bikini. And I realized, This bikini is so me! All those other tiny bikinis weren't me! They were me trying to be someone I'm not, someone who's comfortable in small bikinis and exposing a lot of skin. I'm not comfortable with that! It's so simple! I just have to wear a bigger bikini! How amazing!!!

It was an amazing feeling, and it lingered for days. It seems like a small feat but it's actually tied to a much larger triumph. It was the first time I actually understood the overstated phrase, "Be yourself." Instead of wearing what I thought I should wear, I wore what I wanted to wear. I gave up caring if people would think I was conservative or had chosen a bikini that was more appropriate for older women. I gave up trying to get tiny tan lines that other people thought were sexy. In wearing this bikini that I was so comfortable in, I was being Larissa. I discovered that being Larissa meant wearing a bigger bikini, one that allowed me to move freely and enjoy the beach without the usual body-paranoia. I felt a huge relief.

What propelled me to buy the bikini was a desire to look a certain way for someone else. He never got to see me in my new bikini or new-found comfort and ease, though. And I never got to imagine that he thought I was attractive and hot anyway, even in comparison to other beautiful women at the beach. Instead, I discovered something about myself that was really important. It has inspired me to look at all of my actions and identify whether I'm Being Larissa or Being Who I'd Like To Be.

I've always been a person of particular and consistent tastes. My favorite color has always been purple. My favorite animal has always been the koala. I've always preferred solid prints. I've always liked the same music (folk and country), try as I have to adapt to modern tastes. I've never liked sports. I've always liked sad movies. I always loved sleeping in nightgowns. Still, with all this knowledge about what I most definitely like and don't like, I still tried to be someone other than myself, a lot of the time. I thought that holding on to what I know I like meant I wasn't open to new things. I thought it would make me grow as a person to live outside my comfort zone. Now I realize I actually grow the most when I'm true to myself. As soon as I found this bikini that made me feel so much more like myself, I was able to be present. Much like when I'm in a theatre, a setting where I feel instantly at home, I didn't have to worry about looking like I was comfortable and belonged. I simply was. The experience was exhilarating.

It's ridiculous that I was trying to hide my "flaws" from the person I was romantically involved with, and that I was trying to influence how he thought about me. People will think whatever they want to think, and there's very little I can do about it. I see that now, more than ever.

It isn't easy not to care about what other people think. It takes a lot of conscious effort to "be myself," and a lot of confidence to trust that that's what someone will fall in love with. The bikini was a big step for me and, even so, I discovered it because I was trying to project an image of myself that I thought would be appealing to someone else. I didn't really do it for myself, but it served me nonetheless. I learned something about myself, and now I can honor it.

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.

My Big Bully: Beauty Standards

Ten years ago, I watched the video of my 15th birthday party with my parents and started to scream because of how ugly I looked on the screen. My huge nose, my ear that stuck out, my heavy sagging breasts, my blemished skin, my tiny teeth; all blown up and immortalized on the TV screen. I had never felt pretty, as I've blogged about before, but now it wasn't just a self-esteem issue existing only in my head; there was evidence in the form of digital media, and it was beyond devastating.

Not a day went by after that when I didn't complain about being ugly. Self-hating behavior soon followed: cigarettes, drinking, not eating, overdoing it at the gym, and so on. Coupled with an untimely rejection from the boy I had a crush on at the time, it set me into a depressive spiral, and my parents started worrying about me. Shortly after, I made the decision to undergo plastic surgery. Thanks to Brazilian culture, my parents were unshaken by plastic surgeries, as well as desperate for a solution to my unhealthy self-image, so they allowed it.

On June 12, 2001, an ungentle doctor injected me with a general anesthetic, I passed out cold, and the woman nature intended me to be got cut, tucked, nipped, sculpted, stitched and sewn up, never to be seen again. Six hours later, I awoke throwing up blood and peeing myself, but I had a narrower nose, tucked ears, and smaller, perkier breasts. Not that I could see any of it- I was so bandaged and drugged I could barely remember my own name, but the team of doctors in their aqua-green uniforms were very cheerful and optimistic. All had gone very, very well. June 12th is Valentine's Day in Brazil and, as she wheeled me back to my room, the nurse said, "Happy Valentine's Day! Do you have a boyfriend?" I groggily shook my head no. "Oh, that's okay," she said and stroked my bandaged head, "You'll be so pretty now, next year you'll surely have a boyfriend." Although I was completely doped, I prayed that she please be right.

I forced my ugly-duckling self to blossom into a swan, because I did not know what else to do. Now that I'm an adult and deal with women's self-image issues on a daily basis, I am appalled that no one sat me down and said, "There's nothing wrong with you. Your insecurities are normal. You will survive adolescence, and changing your exterior self will have very little to do with it." Sure, I probably wouldn't have heard them and it may not have stopped me, but it's rather unsettling to think that no one even tried. A 15-year-old girl said, I'm insecure, I feel ugly, I'm going to have three plastic surgeries, and no one tried to stop it. No one tried to find a different (perhaps less permanent/painful/dangerous/expensive/risky) way to help me get through my teenage angst. Not one single person sat me down and tried to tell me I was good enough just as I was. It makes me want to start an "It Gets Better" campaign for plain and unpopular teenage girls. I think the pop-culture and media that standardizes the chase of socialized beauty ideals and profits from the insecurities of teenagers is a big fat bully, and someone should be protecting impressionable young women from it.

Although I have always said I don't regret any of the procedures I went through, the truth is it all happened when I was so young I really have no idea if I've turned out to be the best (or healthiest, or happiest) version of myself. I never got to see myself as an adult pre-surgeries. The irreversible nature of it all meant that what I ended up with was now what I'd live with- I would never again be 100% natural. Unlike medical surgeries and scars people end up with throughout life, these changes in me were self-imposed and forced. Plastic surgeries, much like lying, have the stubborn aftertaste of inauthenticity, and something about me would always feel slightly fake.

I recently heard an older woman talk about wanting to get plastic surgery and remarking, "My boyfriend loves me just the way I am, no one's ever complained, this is just for me," and I felt a pang of jealousy. She got to see who she really was, she found a way to accept it, and she got to be loved for who she was, flaws and all, before making the decision to change it. That is something I have never known.

I never tried to watch that video of my 15th birthday party again, but I still have it. I am pretty sure that if I watched it now I would not be mortified by my ugliness, though. If anything, I'd probably be disturbed by how misconstrued my own self-image was and left wondering, yet again, why there was no attempt to make me aware of that.

The truth is that it was easier, for me and everyone around me, to give in to beauty standards than try to change them. It was also easier to fix the exterior "problems" than deal with the interior battle, and I got what I wanted in the end. When I saw my prom pictures a few years later, I had the thought, Well, look at that. I'm pretty.

And the nurse's prediction was accurate. On June 12th, 2002, I didn't spend Valentine's Day alone.

Image from here.

Bringing Down Princess Days

I don't get the whole "TREAT" yourself to a salon day. The whole "Be a Princess For a Day": get waxed, get a mani-pedi, get your hair deep-conditioned for three hours, get your eyebrows tweezed, bond with your girlfriends over nail polish trends... all while reading useless gossip magazines, and all for only $200!

Seriously.

I've been doing all that stuff for over a decade now, and it has never felt like a treat nor did I ever feel like a princess. It felt more like an expected obligation and I felt more like a slave.

I tried to like it, I did. Because I felt I was supposed to. All the women around me were always looking forward to their vanity days, and women are expected to brag about how they like to "take care of themselves"- it's supposed to equal self-love, so I played along.

But there was something wrong with the picture.

I had one of these "salon days" today, for example. I avoid them nowadays, but eventually, if one wants to look *socially* acceptable at important social events, one has to go through the primping parade. As I lay on the waxing table with my right leg on my left shoulder and waited for my Iranian waxing lady to unkindly pour the hot wax on the back of my right thigh, holding my breath as I anticipated the next step, I thought, "Well. If this is a Princess' day, I don't ever want to get promoted to Queen status." After the never-comfortable-always-painful waxing session, I was nice and smooth, as is expected of women. I did, in fact, feel like I fit in to society just a little bit more, just by having less hair on my body. Great.

Next: mani-pedi. They make it sound like so much fun, "Oh! Get a bunch of your girlfriends and go get your nails done!" Because of course! That's the safest way to get women to bond! Keep them focused on their vanity. I personally always find it quite boring, to sit there and not move too much so as to not fuck anything up, reading about how Sandra Bullock is following Madonna's and Angelina's footsteps as she adopts a black baby post-getting-cheated-on, feeling rather elitist, while a lady- sometimes kind, sometimes miserable- digs out my cuticles and files my nails so that they all look the same and make everyone else feel more comfortable- another woman under control, mission accomplished. And why yes, I do start to feel like my inner animal is a little more tamed, like I probably won't yell at anyone today. I mean, how could a young woman, so nicely waxed, smooth, and with such well-behaved nails actually raise her voice or demand anything? No, no. This young woman that is coming forth speaks softly, smiles, flirts, and eats only lettuce.

I don't get my hair or eyebrows done anymore, but if I did, that would be approximately another four hours of Princess Time, of taming and controlling, of willing me into being a well-behaved girl- a role I know all too well.

I walk out fairly exhausted from all the primping and forced interactions, but looking like what I'm supposed to look like. That's what I went in there for, after all.

People ask me what I did today, and I tell them, and they're jealous of my Princess Day. I want to say, "This was a Princess Day? If I were a Princess I'd ban salons from my kingdom. I'd ban beauty standards. I'd rather spend my day fertilizing soil for corn to grow on."

You may have caught on to the fact that I'm a little bitter about all this. I'm bitter about all the money, time, and effort I spent in order to look like something I have been told to look like. I'm bitter about the fact that femininity looks like a tamed fragile delicate little hairless puppy.

And most of all, I'm bitter about the fact that I'm still doing all this stuff.

I realize I'm starting to sound like an angry feminist, but I'm really starting to think more women should be angry about this.

At one point, I just did all the vanity routine without questioning it. But NOW, I question it, I disagree with it, I am completely self-aware as I go through the motions, but I STILL do it.

Why?

Maybe because, let's face it, sometimes -most times- complying is just easier than rebelling. We all get tired, we all want to fit in and be told we're pretty, we all want love and intimacy, and having hairy legs and uneven nails doesn't really seem to do a damn thing except turn people off.

Decades of feminism and here we are, self-aware but doing the same things we've always done.

For a while, women defied the standards of beauty. Short hair, no bras, no waxing, and other such physical rebellions that paralleled the actual changes they fought for: equal pay, value for housework, fair divorce laws, protection against sexism and harassment, etc.

But it's a difficult a battle. How do we get Vogue do to a spreadsheet with women who have not waxed or gotten their nails done or plucked their eyebrows? We can't even get them to do a spreadsheet with women who are above a size -4. And how do we get men to understand the illusion they buy into when they prefer women to look/act like meek shaved lambs? We can't even get them to take responsibility for having sex with 13-year-olds.

It's hard and it's up to us and there's no formula for us to follow. As Naomi Wolf wrote in her book, The Beauty Myth, "A century ago, Nora slammed the door of the doll's house; a generation ago, women turned their backs on the consumer heaven of the isolated multiapplianced home; but where women are trapped today, there is no door to slam. If we are to free ourselves of the dead weight that has once again been made out of femaleness, it is not ballots or lobbyists or placards that women will need first; it is a new way to see."

And what is this new way to see?

I don't know, but maybe it starts with undoing the little myths, like the "salon day = princess day" myth, and the "femininity is soft and small" myth. So maybe we still get waxed and get our nails done, but let's be clear about why and what we're propelling by doing so. The wrong things have been on pedestals long enough. Let's bring some of them down.

Let's bring down Unhealthy Beauty Standards.

Let's bring down Days Lost to Vanity.

Let's bring down Women are Soft and Small.

Let's bring down Women Enjoy Suffering for Beauty.

And, please, let's bring down the damn Princess Days.

The Dictatorship of Thinness

Five days ago I was on a cruise with my mom, which means I was wearing a bikini most of the time, and therefore obsessing over my body. I was standing in front of the mirror in our room holding back my love handles, sucking my stomach in, standing up as straight as I could, and imagining the results of a possible liposuction. The TV was on in the background and, as fate would have it, about two minutes later, the news reported the death of Lanusse Martins Barbosa, victim of a liposuction gone wrong. She was 27 years old.
It was a "medical error" that really shouldn't have happened, and the plastic surgeon is being tried for homicide. People are calling him a criminal, and because the victim was a public figure- she was a TV journalist- she is representing the hundreds of women who have died or suffered irreparable damage during plastic surgeries.
I am left with a mixture of reactions. I am wondering who the real criminals are, the doctors who are careless, or the culture we live in that values thinness so much that women (myself included) are willing to cut themselves open and suck out their "excess fat" in order to look like something we have been told (or brainwashed into believing) is not only beautiful, but normal.

Doctors and sponsors who deal with vanity are some of the wealthiest people in the world. Products and programs that promise thinness are part of a multi-billion dollar industry. Go to the Women's Interest section in a magazine stand and you will see another multi-billion dollar industry that is benefiting from telling women that what they look like can always improve, that there's always a new way to be thinner, that self-worth grows as the numbers on the scale decrease.
It's hard- if not impossible- not to be affected by it. I haven't managed yet. Even though I regularly read feminist magazines like Ms. and Bust and Bitch, that fight, among many of the ways society oppresses women, this dictatorship of thinness, and even though I know that butchering myself in the name of beauty is not only unnecessary and ridiculous, but dangerous, I am still caught in an often overwhelming desire to be extremely thin. The kind of thin that can wear low-cut jeans with a glued-to-my-skin shirt, that can wear the smallest bikini without an ounce of fat hanging out around my waist, that can make me feel invincible.
At the same time that I have these thoughts I am completely disgusted with myself for having them. I spend an inexplicable amount of energy convincing myself, every single day, that this is all absurd, that I'm too smart to buy into this manipulative crap, that I do not need to be any thinner, that real women have curves, that the men I'm interested in don't want to date anorexic models, and that I shouldn't feed this negative voice that is not my own and tells me I am not good enough. But, when I'm really really honest with myself, when I look really deep inside, it's all still there- I still want to be really really thin. I want it so much that even after Lanusse Martins Barbosa's death, I can't say I'll never want (or have) a liposuction.
How sad this all makes me. Why can't we all have different bodies? Why do we all want the same one? Why don't I love and respect the body I have, why am I always dissatisfied? It's exhausting, it really is, and it makes me feel weak. I do not want to be defeated by the dictatorship of thinness, I want to believe I can rise above it.

Maybe my mind is split into two armies. One of them is called You Are Not Good Enough, and the other one is called You Are Perfect. I think they fight each other constantly and sometimes one wins over the other. Unfortunately the former tends to win because it has powerful ammunition- most of society backing it up. But sometimes You Are Perfect wins, even if just for instants, and that's a start. I don't think that in this lifetime I will be able to completely abolish You Are Not Good Enough, so what I'm going to hope for is that it can learn to be quiet most of the time and have less power over me. Maybe they can both come to a peace-treaty one day and I can find some sort of peace with myself and my body image issues.

A far-off fantasy, perhaps. But I'm not willing to give up yet.

Inside Boobs

I am 7 and I wonder where our toe-nails come from.

How do we have enough toe nail to last all of our lives?

Sally wonders what's inside boobs.

She and I are the only ones who have to

wear a bra in the fourth grade,

so we talk about boobs

while everyone else wonders about toe nails for a few more years.

One day, Ms. Miller hears us talking about boobs

and we have to go to the principal.

She doesn't understand why we have to talk about boobs

since we taped and wrapped them after the

sixth grade boys tried to steal them.

In seventh grade the other girls get our fourth grade boobs

while we move on to wired bras.

High-school boys want to kiss us and we think we may be popular.

In ninth grade we are changing in the locker room

and a girl gasps, pointing at our breasts.

Everyone stares.

Sally and I look around at all the girls' stone pink breasts,

pointing straight at us.

We look down at our own;

stretch marks sinking into nipples

talking to knees,

our tummies nowhere to be found.

Sally and I swear never to take our bras off again.

But I know Sally has broken her promise

when David tells the whole school about her grandmother tits.

We turn 15 and we want small boobs.

My parents say okay because of my back pains.

Sally's parents don't agree, however.

She is too young.

They prefer she walk around

with bra cuts on her shoulders

and weep like a widow.

Sally cries when she sees my scars,

telling me over and over again that they are

so

so

beautiful.

And she asks me, very quietly,

what, after all,

was inside boobs.

To Age or To Pretend Not To Age

I personally think that women like Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren, who let themselves age gracefully, are far more attractive, intriguing, and inspiring than women like Cher or Sophia Loren, who froze themselves in time and, to me, look completely artificial and downright scary.
But I know that aging is difficult for women- the world we live in, particularly the show business world, favors youth. I have nothing against delaying wrinkles and trying to look like the best version of ourselves at any age. I already use eye cream, for example, and I know I don't need it. I like to take care of myself and I certainly do not judge women for pursuing youth, but I do think some women go too far. When I see an older woman with a frozen forehead and mouth, excessively artificially tanned, and filled with scars behind her ears and on her scalp from countless face-lifts, it makes me sad. It makes me sad that women go to such measures to look like they have won the battle against time- and thus won the battle against society's prejudice against older women. It makes me sad to know they haven't- the world looks at them and, for the most part, thinks them ridiculous.
I read a book on beauty the other day (while in my dermatologist's waiting room- go figure), where the author interviewed hundreds of women on beauty. They all seemed to agree that what made a woman beautiful was confidence. And I have always agreed- what made Sophia Loren seem so sexy to me was her confidence. When I see her now- stretched out and orange, barely able to speak- I want to scream. Or cry. Where did the confidence go? Does it seep out of these women as aging takes its toll? Was it really confidence that made them beautiful, or was it beauty (the beauty of youth) that gave them confidence?
I know, even as I write this, that I understand very little about it. I haven't watched the face I'm used to seeing in the mirror change into one I don't want to recognize. I don't know what it's like to find fragile white hairs amidst my mane of thick black hair. I can still look at my hands without them accusing me of having lived more years than I care to remember. These are all things I can imagine, but I do not know them yet. And, like most young women, I think I'll be different- I'll handle aging with grace, I'll wear my white hair long, I'll sneer at botox, I'll find the beauty of every wrinkle. And I really do hope I will- but who knows? I think Meryl Streep is aging gracefully, but maybe she doesn't think so at all. Maybe she wishes she had taken the hormones Cher took, even if just to fool herself, for a little while.
We can't know how each woman is really handling aging- it's such a personal thing. Even Gloria Steinem, mama of Feminism, shocked people when, on her 75th birthday, she was asked about aging and, instead of answering that she was above that, she said, "Now, I look in the mirror, I see all kinds of age changes, and I think, 'Well, I expected that, but not THAT!' Beginning at around 50, I started to realize that our bodies lose what they need to support someone else, and keep what they need to support us. How smart is that!? It’s interesting to watch my body do something that it knows how to do but I don’t. (...) When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift, I used to say maybe after 70. Well, here I am and I still wouldn’t. I’d like to say it’s because I can’t imagine Georgia O’Keeffe or Eleanor Roosevelt or Rosa Parks with a facelift, but the truth is I’m afraid I’d become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you’re talking to him, you can’t think of anything else." (http://www.wowowow.com/politics/gloria-steinem-75-feminists-pro-choice-268505?page=0%2C0)
So what do we do? I don't have advice yet. Check back in, say, 40 years?

Real Beauty

I was caught quite off-guard when, a few years ago, a friend told me I had an advantage in life because I was attractive. In fact, I laughed, thinking she was joking. But she wasn't. To this friend of mine, I was beautiful and, as far as she was concerned, I was born that way, and my life was easier because of it. In my mind, however, she was as far from the truth as possible.

As a child I thought beauty was Barbie, which meant I was very, very ugly. No one ever said so- but no one really ever said I was beautiful either. I had big chubby cheeks and I was cute, maybe, but people did not refer to me as a "beautiful child." And cute didn't last very long either, because I grew very tall, and tall children are not considered cute. In the first grade my teacher had us line up according to height once and I was the tallest kid in my class, taller even than the boys, so I knew at that moment that I was never going to be a princess. A devastating fact to learn at the age of 6.

Adolescence was not kind to me either. My hair was suddenly frizzy, I got pimples, and my boobs were huge. In a bra and behind a shirt, my boobs actually worked in my favor, but they were heavy and sagged- meaning I could never wear a shirt without a bra, not even a built-in bra, and going to the beach was a horror show. My nose was too wide for my face, I had to wear braces on my teeth, I had facial hair, and one of my ears stuck out (just one- which is worse than both sticking out).

But all was not lost. I lived in Brazil, after all. There were magazines telling me that Real Beauty was attainable, even for ugly plain girls like me, and there were dermatologists and plastic surgeons at every corner ready to help me get there.

And so it started. From the age of 12-17 I had 72 very painful facials, at 15 I had 3 very painful plastic surgeries, at 16 I underwent 10 very painful (and expensive) laser procedures for hair-removal that felt like I was electrocuting my face, from 14-17 I had my hair straightened twice a week, and for the past 12 years I have spent thousands (perhaps millions) of dollars on face creams, hair creams, and body creams. Oh- let me not forget the three years of physical therapy to fix my posture (which had been ruined by the weight of my breasts and my extremely low self-esteem), and the endless pursuit of thinness that haunts me still.

And so since the age of about 18 I have been able to look in the mirror and see my perfect nose, my well-behaved skin and hair, my straight teeth, my small breasts, etc. and yes, I guess I see something closer to Real Beauty than I'd known before.

Except nothing about it feels real.

At 18, a truly beautiful man, the most beautiful man I've ever been involved with to date, took an interest in me. He thought I was beautiful, and said so, many times. I had dated other boys, but no one as purely good looking as this guy. I didn't believe him, though, and our romance quickly ended as a result. That would not be the first time my insecurities got in the way of my dating life. When I meet a man who thinks I'm beautiful, I cringe. Deep inside, although I rarely reveal this, I am waiting for him to "discover" that I'm not beautiful at all. I know he'll see it- not exactly that I'm not beautiful- because the job was well done, I admit, I can fool anyone now- but that I was not born beautiful, I don't possess Real Beauty, and, above all, I still have an ugly plain girl within.

When that friend saw me as someone who belonged in the category of the few who not only possess, but take for granted, Real Beauty, I was surprised, yes, but I was also scared. Scared of my own facade, of its power and its sudden realness in my life. I explained to my friend what my reality was, and as she listened I saw her thinking of her own history with beauty/ugliness. She was one of those women who considered herself plain and ugly, and she was caught quite off-guard herself when I explained that the real difference between us was that I had the money and the cultural incentive to change what I looked like.

Do I think it's right for a young girl to have gone through everything I went through in order to fit into the mold of conventional beauty? No, I don't. I don't think teenagers should have plastic surgery, I don't think children should be aware of beauty, I don't think women should ever ever think they're fat.

But would I take away the image I see in the mirror now? Would I put back the wide nose, would I go back to the heavy sagging breasts, would I be okay with post-adolescence blemished skin, would I stop dieting? No, I wouldn't. It pains me to say so, but I know it's true. I rather be attractive, cost what it may have cost me (emotionally and financially), even if it never feels real.

I do wonder what my life would be like if I (and the society I was raised in) just accepted me as I was. Not only accepted, but recognized it as beautiful in its own non-conventional way. I have wondered many times; what if magazines were covered with models who had normal bodies, frizzy hair, a pimple or two? What if there was no air-brushing, what if naturally "beautiful" people were not valued more than "normal-looking" people? What would I look like now? How would I feel about myself? How many boyfriends would I have had? How many leading roles would I have been cast in? How many clothes would I have never bought? How many places would I have been ignored in?

Asking all these questions is futile, really, no answer can really be known. I share my story and my thoughts on beauty in hopes that one day, if I ever have a daughter, she will find her beauty without battling her own Self and wounding her soul. In hopes that one day, when someone tells me I'm beautiful, the compliment won't come with the reminder of my enslavement to it, and, more than anything, that I may be able to believe that what that person is seeing is the Real Me.