Inner Beauty

         I went into the cosmetic shop because I didn’t want to think they were talking about me if I hadn’t. It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, I guess, if they had. They went into I don’t know how many other shops before stopping at this one. I could imagine the conversation.
         “I just don’t know why she won’t wear this stuff.”
         “She’s just trying her damndest to not be like you, that’s all.”
         Of course, they were both wrong. I wanted to wear all the clothes they were referring to; that included those inside Rue 21, one of those ‘Don’t bother coming in if you are bigger than a size 10’ stores. Of course I would wear that stuff. And I wasn’t intentionally trying to not be like my sister. What girl my age wouldn’t want to be like her? Short, straight, blonde hair. Clear skin. Beautiful blue eyes. Living in a condo in Southwest Florida. Just graduated college. Engaged. Size 4? Size 2? Skinny, that’s all that mattered.
         So, I proceeded to follow—silently—my mother and sister into the cosmetic shop at an outlet mall in Northwestern Louisiana. As they proceeded to drift from eyeliner to eye shadow, I walked wordlessly behind them, staring every now and then at the paraphernalia. As they moved along the rows, I glanced around the shelves and listened to the click-clacking heels of the girls that worked there. Typical. They looked about the same age my sister, dressed in black to match the shelves and floor, I guess. Wistfully, they’d glide toward my attending party and ask if they “needed help finding anything.” They gave the usual “no, we’re just looking,” and continued towards the lipstick.
         I, meanwhile, had passed a mirror. I used to pass on every chance to glance in the mirror, but for some reason I stopped; it was one of the round mirrors that seem to magnify everything on your face. I looked around again, scoping out the environment for people watching me, and had the strangest urge to start picking at a pimple on my chin. God, that would have been hilarious.
         I passed up the opportunity and walked towards the shop windows. My brothers and stepfather were standing outside in the hot southern heat, no doubt thinking the same thing as me: “How much longer are they gonna be looking at that crap?” I edged closer to the window until my oldest brother glanced at me. I noiselessly mouthed words, “Help me” and grinned as I turned back towards the black and Pepto-Bismol-pink shelves.
         My mother and sister had found makeup to their liking and made their way up to the cashier. The smiling brunette totaled the tiny tube of lip pump and foundation and asked if they wanted a bag. No, I’ll just put it in my purse, was the response.
         As we made our way out of the store, I was relieved and yet still a little sad. My family and I made our way through the faux street towards the theater, all the while I looked around. At girls. Women. Teenagers. Babies. What else, right? I seemed to compare myself to any female that passed me—I was incapable of stopping myself. The rush of ideas concerning my own inadequacy soon came to mind as I noted girls my own age hand-in-hand with guys. Damn it—why not me?
         This was typical behavior with me. My inability to go into public without thinking such things was routine, but sometimes downright depressing. How can someone stand to think about comparing themselves to everyone who walks by them all the time? I don’t know, I just do it.

         After I washed my face the following morning, I stopped. I wasn’t unattractive. My hair was up at the time into a tight pony tail that seemed to pull my hair back so much that I had a huge forehead. Stop! Think of positive features. I love my eyes. Sheesh, what fat girl doesn’t say that?
         “I hate my body but I love my eyes! They’re so deep.”
         My eyes were brown. Nothing extraordinary about them, except for the fact that I was one only one of my mother’s children that had brown eyes—the rest had blue. Oooh. But as I continued to stare at myself I couldn’t help but note my imperfections. How did I get to the point that that’s all I could see? Imperfections. Therapy, anyone?