“She had sooty lashes that formed a thick fringe around her gently moulded almond shaped eyes, which flashed sea green when she was calm, and turned to darker jade when troubled. Her tiny waist needed no corset, rather it would’ve been a constriction, a cage for her lively spirit, which gleamed through every graceful curve and hollow of her slender body. She was a captivating beauty.”
…Hold on. Where do these girls live?
Who are these girls who know seven languages, have sparkling wit, eyes that could kill and a waist so tiny it can be encircled with one hand? Everything they do is a masterpiece, and their foibles aren’t actually flaws; they’re just a product of bad timing or an agitated spirit.
Girls today have unbelievably unrealstic idols to live up to. I mean, my legs don’t start from my neck, I look fat in some clothes, skinny in some, and my hair isn’t always a ‘pile of fragrant rich mahogany just tumbling off my polished white shoulders.’ Who in the world looks perfect in everything?
No, I haven’t been nibbling on sour grapes, but I have been thinking. You can only be someone’s idea of perfect. Universal perfection is a standard that isn’t humanly possible. I mean, and this is purely tongue in cheek, Princess Diana was a wonderful, graceful spirit, but some might have wished for her to grow her hair. She wasn’t the ‘perfect’ ideal for say, girls who couldn’t care less about the royalty, or girls with violently dyed hair who have angst.
Audrey Hepburn, my idol, the epitome of feminine charm, died of cancer. Marilyn Monroe was unhappy, took her own life. Clearly, perfection is unattainable.
I am, more or less, an everyday teenage girl. I always feel like I could stand to lose a few pounds and gain a few inches.. I feel like I’m not perfect, and my legs don’t look good in skinny jeans. But I’m going to be somebody’s idea of perfect one day. Everyone is.
If all of us were perfect, no one would be.