Collarbones & Quadriceps

I have unrealistic beauty standards for myself. Some days I come closer to meeting them than others. That’s life.

But the thing is, I realized long ago that no one was paying attention. I can lose 20 pounds before anyone notices at all, and that’s my hairdresser who looks at women in unflattering poses for a living.

I couldn’t care about the societal definition of pretty if I tried. Just yesterday I was explaining the exact photoshop tools used on a grocery line magazine cover to my mother when I felt sadness behind me. I turned to see the face of some poor middle aged man who clearly believed women like this existed and would swipe right for him. I may have ruined his life. Don’t care.

I impose these unrealistic beauty standards on myself. And I make them up.

In high school I took a weightlifting class, and at the age of 17 (long before cell phones normalized the problem) would bump into objects because I was staring at my thighs while I walked. Nothing made me happier than watching my quads go BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! with every flexing step.

In my 40's I am fairly successfully working to recreate this experience. At least other people run into light poles while walking now.

One of the sexiest parts of the female body, in my opinion, is the collarbone. I’m not willing to starve myself, but I am happy when it appears. I wish it were more frequent.

Arched and darkened eyebrows, hiker’s callouses, cut deltoids, and glossy hair are also on the list. You can fake the gloss with the right product, just so you know.

I also love my surgical scar. It makes me look like a Bond villain. Not conventionally sexy. I’m not a Bond girl. Because I’m nobody’s sidekick or toy.

My point is: screw societal expectations. Not just about beauty. About work. About love. About how to live your life.

When you are on your deathbed, you might fondly remember the quads of your youth. I doubt you’ll find much solace in trying to become someone you are not just to please someone who doesn’t care.

Collarbones and Quadriceps. That is my jam.

What’s yours?