We take mirrors for granted, while obsessing over the reflection contained therein.  Mirrors, however, were once a luxury afforded only to the aristocracy.

In more primitive times, you might hope to catch a glance of yourself in a still puddle of water but even then we were more intimately familiar with the faces of others.  Some prehistoric people fashioned mirrors out of pieces of obsidian, or dark wood oiled to a reflective sheen.  That hardly, however, afforded one a true sense of their own reflection.

Sometimes we look in a mirror and our eyes go straight to our thinning hair or paunchy belly.  Other times we are enraptured by our shoulders, our lips, our chest.

What we see in the mirror is often a matter of what we are looking for.

It is only very recently that people have been able to change what they see in the mirror.  With the advent of plastic surgery, we can lift, we can tuck, we can liposuction.  We can reshape our noses and our breasts.  We can redress our genetic wrongs and uncover the image we were meant to be.

The Ugly Duckling

I often joke that I am only hispanic from the neck down.  My face is completely anglo, but I could never shake the feeling that something was different between me and the other girls in elementary school.

Where they were delicate and lissome, I was like a mac truck.  While they flitted around the playground in scraps of adorable fabric, I was a human/T-Rex hybrid.  The earth trembled at my passing.

When I found out about plastic surgery, I was thrilled.  “They can fix me?” I asked in stunned wonder.  “They can fix me.”

Paying for Perfection

It cost $10,000.  A huge amount, especially as I was still in school…but I didn’t care.  I was willing to do whatever it took to uncover the ‘real me’.  I was convinced that there was a bombshell in there.

My hopes were high and, dreaming of my svelte days ahead, I just knew everything would be different.  Better.

After the surgery, I was puffy.  “Don’t worry” I was told, “that’s just fluid retention.  Your body will absorb it over the next several months.”  And so, I waited.  And my body did not ‘reabsorb’ this fluid.  I waited and waited and waited.

Finally I had to face the truth.

It hadn’t worked.  Not only had it not worked, but my body was now redistributing fat cells to places which had never had problems; my inner thighs, my waist.  My heart was leaden with the disappointment and bitter recrimination.

How could I have done this to myself?  Traded what precious little I had for the hope of being someone else?

Near Pefection: A Sign You are on the Right Track

“I’m so close” I told myself.  “So close to being perfect.  All I need is a tweak.  An edge to close that 15% gap.”  And if that line of thinking sounds familiar, you would be correct.  It was exactly what I had told myself about my first doomed relationship.    “We’re so close!  So close to being perfect.”

I was perfect, but not quite.  My relationship with Ben was perfect, but not quite.  My future career as an attorney was perfect, but not quite.  I thought all I needed to do was work harder or analyze the situation better or be more innovative to make my dreams come true.

So close.

It turned out that being an attorney was close to what I truly wanted to do, which was be an advocate for others and help people change their lives.  It turns out that Ben was extremely similar to the man I would eventually end up marrying, though I never would have met Chris if someone hadn’t pried my fingers off of Ben’s person.

And it turns out that the body I had, turned out to be the body I truly wanted.  No, I am not slender or athletic or lissome.  And yes, I could eat more vegetables and dance more often.  But I love being the woman that I am.  I love my curves, I love my softness, I love my behind, and I especially love my chest.

The Universal Anthem of Empowerment

How could I have missed the fact that “Brick House” was my song? That it was the song of a million other women?

Do I think that being a real woman means looking like Pam Grier?  Yes.

But I also think that being a real woman means looking like Gweneth Paltrow or Gabrielle Reese or Jeanine Garafalo or Oprah.  Being a real woman means being a real woman.

Authentic.  Genuine.  Inspired.

Reality is is not perfect, why did I believe that I had to be?  And even though I am not ‘perfect’, I have niche of aesthetically pleased fans.

Clarity of Vision

If I could go back, I would talk my younger self out of liposuction.  (I would talk my younger self out of many many things as a matter of fact.)

Dear Hayden, I would have told myself,

You are beautiful.  There is a sterile beauty in perfection, but your beauty is the beauty of life, of joy and exuberance and youth.

You undervalue what you have and overvalue what others have.  While you would kill to be slender, there are woman who are paying for the nose for the assets you have.

Spend more time around people and less time with your mirror.  They will show you everyday, in a thousand little ways, how beautiful you are.

Sex appeal truly is attitude.  Live with passion and you will inspire passion.

All a mirror does is show you a reflection.  An image once removed from reality.  And, though we see everything, we aren’t looking at everything.  Our vision begins with our attention and our intention.

Where is your attention?  What is your intention?

I find that I truly meet myself when I am looking myself in the eyes.