Selfies, fat, sweat, and tears

How I have dealt with reminders that I am not conventionally attractive

[Please excuse the number of selfies in this — I’m trying to demonstrate a point]

When I turned 30, something crazy happened — my twenties had been wrought with insecurities surrounding how I looked, my teens even more so, but suddenly I didn’t care anymore. When I looked back on my twenties and earlier, from my thirties, I wondered why I was bothered at all — I wasn’t half as bad as I was led to believe, or more importantly, had come to believe. In fairness, I didn’t regularly start wearing makeup till I was 25 and had no actual skin routine till I was even older than that. When I look back, though, I can see how outside influences had an impact on me when I was gullible and naïve and how I gave other peoples’ opinions much more value than they were worth. And now I dress whatever way I want, covered in tattoos and giving way less of I shit about it… or so I thought…

Firstly I’d like to clarify, in a rough sense, how I feel about myself. I do not consider myself physically attractive at all, but I don’t consider that that is how you measure a person’s worth. I have an endless list of things that I consider serious imperfections and a shrinking list of features that I like (as my bones slowly turn to dust). I am used to my appearance being commented on negatively by both men and women, and I know that most of the time, that someone is mildly interested in me has to do with my massive boobs. I am not arrogant despite my millions of…