Self-Improvement

I sparingly consume processed foods.  I use coconut oil as my moisturizer. I drink plenty of water to hydrate.  I avoid sugar and gluten. All of these things I try to do, all these pure things, and yet, I still have a certain level of synthetic to me.  

If it’s vacation/swimsuit season, I’ll chemically tint my skin tone a few shades.  After all, tan fat is aesthetically more pleasing than than pale fat.  If I’ve had too many Starbucks lattes, I’ll whiten my teeth.  I’ve been known to throw in a couple clip-on hair extensions. Oh, and then there’s the occasional Botox injection. Yes, I’m not even in my forties and I’ve dabbled in Botox.  They hooked me young. When you’re in your thirties, they call it “a preventative measure.”

I’ve been accused that I was doing all of this in order to be attractive to others (read: someone other than who I’m with). In fact, I’m doing all of this for my self. My self tells me that it’s possible that I could look a shade better than the status quo self.  Since I’m not transforming into a slice and dice, "lift this and tuck that" kind of person, a healthy level of self improvement seems acceptable. 

I have broken my nose a couple of times.  I have parts of me that need some lifting or pulling.  My genetic predisposition is one of wrinkles, pale skin, freckles, cellulite and visible vein structures.  This is what it’s like to be human— to have lived adventures, to have given birth, to have gained and lost, to have too much sun or not enough. Our bodies reveal our lives like the numerous roads we’ve traveled.  That gives new meaning to the phrase, “he was a weathered fellow."

As much as I practice yoga and preach a health-filled lifestyle, there are some things I don’t want to give up.  It doesn’t mean it’s a desperate attempt to reclaim my youth or make myself desirable to others.  It’s about living right there on the edge between self-improvement and not falling into the pit of vanity.