Skin deep.
To claim I have admirable skin [from a superficial, western society standpoint anyway] would be a bold face lie, similarly as fake & baking inside a bright plastic casket…but playing the end result off as if it came from a day of fun in the sun. There is pretty much nothing envy-worthy that comes from my epidermis along with its 2 deeply layered counterparts.
My outer shell strictly serves as a functional purpose – to maintain proper body temperature, helping protect my immune system from disease, and ultimately a protective barrier.
I’m extraordinarily fair – to the likes of Casper the Ghost’s albino cousin. That makes for tragic outcomes from any amount of UVA/UVB ray exposure…whether it be 5 minutes or 50, I ripe up to a 2-legged juicy tomato.
I’m covered in “beauty marks” aka moles. Dozens and dozens and dozens. It’s hereditary. My entire immediate and extended family is full of the brown circular stamps. Skin cancer runs rampant, from my grandfather all the way down to my siblings. Last year I had 6 moles removed, out of 20 in total over the last decade, and 5 were categorized as stage “severe” pre-cancerous. It’s only a matter of time before I join the cancer club.
Besides fearing for your life thanks to deadly, stealth-like melanoma, visually there is really nothing beautiful about them. Particularly when they saturate your entire torso, front & back – like a human connect-the-dot game. So sexy.
Those 20 areas where the “beauty marks” were cut off & stitched up, now look like malnourished, bloated caterpillars. Dermatologists are just looking to do their job — remove the cancer-prone cells. But as far as having the artistry touch of a delicate plastic surgeon is not the case. My scars could lead someone to believe I was the victim of a drive-by shooting.
During my freshman year in high school, I developed a freak show level amount of acne on my face. After trial & error with many, many topical treatments, the last resort was taking the pill Accutane. Imagine pouring gasoline on your face. It worked – but it traumatized me so much that ‘til this day I still forget the gang of pimples are long gone [with an occasional solo visit] and literally flinch when someone compliments my Dove-inspired, fresh-face, even tone.
Then there are my coveted stretch marks. From what I’ve observed on the beach, locker room, and barely there outerwear around town during summer months…I’m pretty much on par with the average female in my age range. Hips, lower abdomen, and lower back house a decent amount of the pale claw lookalike scrapes. On a bad day, even the under arm / armpit area can look a little stressed out. And considering I haven’t even birthed a child yet, I’m just ecstatic to discover how much cocoa butter tubs will be needed to fill my shelves in order to repair the undeniable damage. That life mile marker will probably prompt my first Costo membership.
Last but not least, cellulite. Oh dear God. It haunts me. What kills me is even when I was healthy, fit and physically active in high school, I experienced cottage cheese sightings. Just one single dimple on my back left leg appeared and the rest was history. I honestly think it is *the* one, most prominent physical deformity to keep me impossibly and indefinitely humble. There is no cure. All the gels, creams, and electrical procedures a gal could dream of, will not delete the indents. Even after losing weight, and fitting snuggly within the healthy BMI range, the ripples persist.
The question about beauty being skin deep…makes me wonder. Is it? When push comes to shove, do we really look past the outer layer?
I’m currently undergoing the single most intense soul searching of my lifetime. My body is drenched in scars of all types, but my spirit is pretty dinged up too. I’ve also been told that as we age, we become “more comfortable in our own skin.” I’m not sure if that is metaphorically speaking, literally, or both.
Beauty is defined differently by everyone. And personally, I believe that being shiny underneath makes you brighter on the surface.
Excuse me while I grab some polish.
