I'm getting quite a kick out of the "real me" thing happening in the bloggesphere. You know, well-read mistresses of the internets posting what they deem to be less-than-flattering pictures of themselves, presumably to stop the madness of inferiority complexes we women seem to acquire as we try to attain unattainable beauty.
Well, I'm not sure if the drive to put our "real selves" out there is going to make it any easier for any of us to finish that last morsel on our plates or continue shopping at Goodwill or even worry less about wearing no makeup, as we all tend to do anyway.
We're still going to want smaller noses, waistlines and feet no matter what anyone tells us.
I mean, I've seen the Dove commercials. I know most women don't look like Kate Moss. Even in the darkest recesses of my imagination I intuitively know Kate Moss doesn't really look like Kate Moss.
But, to be quite honest, control over my own self image is the only thing I have. Well ... to a degree. Why should I show you what I think I really look like? I don't need a half dozen "you are too cute" comments. I know you are all nice people.
What you see is never going to be what I see.
What does "almost 40" look like anyway?
Does she wear a tiara?
A blue colored sling?
Will she be wearing a cheap, pink Timex watch?
And be bathed in the light of compact florescent bulbs?
She probably should shower a little more, but who'd watch the kids?
Mornings are tough with a preschooler.
Nights are tougher with an infant.
So here I am. ... the person I always wanted to be ...
Ms. Dishpan Hands, 2008
And I promise to work for world