Building Beauty, From the Inside Out

Biting into a plate of food, I suddenly feel a strange snap inside my mouth. I place my finger on a tooth and abruptly it falls out. I make my way across my gums and, one by one, teeth crumble. I panic as I frantically try piecing together the white porcelain shards in my palm. I suddenly wake up from this nightmare.

A reoccurring dream of mine, I ponder its possible meaning. By this weekend, its significance is painfully clear.

On Saturday morning, I feel an incredible pain in my molar—a throbbing menace that moves through my sinuses, head and ears. Monday morning, the tooth/headache is unbearable. By Tuesday morning, I am dialing dentists, desperately trying to book an appointment.

The final diagnosis: tooth decay, two root canals.

Bedridden for several days, I am fuming over the astronomical dental bill, frustrated that the meds aren't working, sad that I can't be with my daughter. More so, I feel guilt.

These root canals are completely preventable. Yes, I admit, I am a sugar addict. I also hate going to the dentist. I put off important tasks. But these are simply symptoms of a larger, underlying ailment.

Dreams of teeth falling out are quite common. Some dream interpreters believe teeth represent one’s attractiveness, beauty and self-confidence. Caring about how we appear is apparently quite normal and creates a certain amount of anxiety.

But what happens when the pursuit of perfection becomes an compulsion that rots you from the inside out? When you chronically coat your teeth with high-calorie, high-carbohydrate foods and then bath them in hydrochloric stomach acid? When you yet again must confront the unimaginable damage of self-inflicted abuse.

As I work towards rebuilding my teeth, I am reminded of a painful past, battling a very personal, very shameful body image problem. Sad little shards of insecurity and self-hatred that I now hold in the palm of my hand. Though I've come to treat my harmful habits, I still pay an enormous price for my actions, which I hope to one day settle. But that's ok, 'cause I am worth every penny.

A Butt Smacking Good Time

Making my way to the kitchen, I walk past the Hubby sitting on the couch reading the paper. I move in slowly, ease my pace slightly, and subtly place the butt into eye view. Three-quarters into my turn, I feel a swift smack. We have contact and all is good.

Equivalent to a hug, smooch or holding hands, nothing says I love you like having my bottom slapped. In the kitchen, running upstairs, getting in the car—all fine opportunities for a good smack.

Photo by ilmungo using Creative Common License.

Why the behind? Like most Latinas, I have been bestowed with a rather round rump. The object of shame for many years, it has been ridiculed, hidden behind baggy t-shirts and sweaters, and treated with fad diets that failed to diminish the derrière.  And like the ugly duckling that transformed to a beautiful swan, Cinderella’s rags to a ball gown, my badonkadonk has too changed from a thing that taunts to one I flaunt. 

And though I enjoy receiving the Hubby’s other conventional means of affection, the booty slap is surprisingly the most loving. And before anyone suggest that it’s degrading, I’d like to enforce that the act is 100% consensual, done privately, and one I completely encourage.

So rather than condemn, I’m going to lose the baggy sweats and low(er)-body confidence for my sexiest accessory—confidence—and praise all my God-given assets.

Body Imperfect: Real Beauty and Anti-Eating Disorder Ads

My sister recently directed my attention to a 1998 ad campaign from The Body Shop showcasing “Ruby,” a pleasantly plump anti-Barbie, intended to challenge stereotypes of beauty. 

So rather than inundate you with my feminist rantings about how the beauty industry encourages low self-esteem, poor self-image and eating disorders among women...or how over-sexualized images of girls leads to their objectification, which in turn plays an important role in gender inequities…

I will say simply: I’m loving Ruby’s rubenesque lady lumps.

But isn’t The Body Shop and more recently Dove, with their Real Beauty Campaign, in the money-making business? Aren’t they just marketing a positive-self-image-message for profit?

I don't want to go off on an anti-capitalist rant either, but rather admit to my own self-doubts, insecurities and impossible ideals of beauty. And, more importantly, valuing other’s opinions—whether it be The Industry, The Man, or The Hubby—above my own. I’ve done my fair share of rating body parts, double triple quadruple checking myself in the mirror, or assailing the hubby with does my ass look too big in this?

Where does this overreliance on other’s acceptance come from?

I wore a rubber band around my wrist for a day, and snapped it whenever I had a critical thought about others or myself. I snapped it quite a bit a lot. A popular practice among smokers trying to quit, I too came to realize my own unpleasant addiction, an obsession with perfection.

Wanting perfection, fearing I won't achieve it, and feeling inadequate if I can't be perfect.  

Three dirty habits I’d like to lose. And replace with courage—courage to be imperfect. My courage campaign would feature the real women in my life—how I love them for who they are and not for their ability to meet certain criteria.

Before I place any more reliance on an industry—positive messaging or not—I’ll place more heed on my own opinions and start the revolution first from within.