Why should I spend fifty dollars on those jeans? Because the girl in the advertisement made them look like they were made to custom fit her. Should I spend thirty dollars on that make-up kit? The con artist applying it to my face at the mall said it looked really good on me. So why do we always fall victim to the scripted sales associates at the store? Image. I am trying to uphold an image. But I don’t want to be so thin that my size two jeans are sagging off of me. But as much as we hate to admit it, we all want to walk by knowing we’re receiving positive feedback from the people behind us. Growing up on the, in my opinion, heavier side, I was constantly a target for my older male siblings. I could handle the less than constructive criticism until I reached those vulnerable high school years. The harmless taunts from my brothers never decreased, but they weren’t the issue. I found myself frequently studying my appearance in the mirror. My dark hair was thick and slightly frizzy. I needed at least a couple years of braces, and should have hit the gym on occasion. But why were these “issues” all becoming so relevant? Image. Society, including high school trends and cliques, told me I should be concerned. My friends would often play the “you’re not fat, you’re average” card. I wonder if they knew I didn’t buy any of it. Over these sensitive years, I ditched the total tomboy look and took more of an interest in cute clothes. It became a priority to have my nails painted and hair straightened. Whatever I thought others would approve of was ultimately my goal.

As my high school days came close to an end, I lost the braces, along with a few extra pounds, and gained more confidence than ever. But as I fell into the inevitable college routine, the weight fluctuations made my self -esteem plummet on occasion. Spending money on clothes to impress others became the norm. Every boyfriend I somehow obtained made useless attempts to tell me I was the prettiest and thinnest girl they had ever seen. Despite the temporary feeling of joy from their complimenting, I always felt it was exaggerated. I was often told that in society, I would not be considered the girl who should put down the pizza and go for a salad. The rare optimistic parts of me would believe them at first, until I assumed my appearance wasn’t satisfactory.

Over the years, something finally clicked. It wasn’t these poor men, who were subjected to my self-dislike, who were at fault. How was I supposed to expect a man to love every physical attribute when I never do? It irritated me to know my appearance obsession consumed more of my time than it should have. The money spent on expensive, high-quality clothes was justified as long as they made me look better than I did when I walked into the store. While I still sometimes ask my boyfriend if my jeans make me look big, I know it’s not really the jeans.

I had never been one of those women who accepted her body and loves her curves. I always tried to make dramatic changes; dyeing my hair every color, trying new make-up, going on completely unreasonable diets and following strict work-out regimens. Yet as I got older, although my insecurities still arise, I have learned to put such hang-ups aside. There are more important things to focus on besides my appearance, which some may actually find satisfactory. When someone tells me I look good, I try to believe their genuine compliment and accept me for me. My body, my image.