In the 1970’s I was lucky to grow up in a townhouse community with a swimming pool and clubhouse. Not the fancy kind with lifeguards and PYTs serving drinks on trays; our neighborhood was solid middle class where everyone knew everyone, we left our front door unlocked during the day, and we rode single speed Huffy bikes until dinner time.

During summer vacation, the neighborhood kids hung out at the pool. We would arrive early to stake out a worn lounge chair, slather our bodies in coconut suntan oil, and squeeze lemon juice on our hair to bake in highlights (no, it doesn’t work for black Asian hair).

At the clubhouse vending machines, 10 cents would get you an Abba-Zaba bar, Now and Laters, or candy cigarettes that we would blow between our pursed lips so sugar would puff out and resemble real smoke. Swimming and candy. It was glorious.

The changing room had a long bench to plop your towel on while you showered or used the bathroom. A 5 foot wide wall separated this area from 2 sinks with mirrors above them. It was in the sink area that I broke my leg.

I was 9 and had been swimming with my friend Lynn, and after a long day in the sun, we stopped in the changing room before heading home.

I decided to braid my hair, which is tricky to do on your own. I divided my hair into sections and made 2 braids that fell down my back behind each ear. I don’t know who I was trying to impress, but my braids had to be perfect, so I hopped up on the sink to check the styling in the mirror. With my back facing the mirror, I slowly turned my head to the right to look at my nape.

If you’re not 9, it’s obvious you can’t see the back of your head without a second mirror. No matter for this soon-to-be 4th grader. As my chin moved above my shoulder, I fell off the sink onto the cold hard tile floor and screamed.

Lynn quickly came over and told me to get up, but I couldn’t move. My right leg felt as heavy as lead.

Call for help…

mom had to race home from work…

the floor is still cold…

paramedics arrive…

cardboard splint…

ouch that hurt…

ambulance ride to the hospital wondering why they didn’t turn the sirens on…

emergency room…

leg broken in the calf area in 3 places…

hobbled on a full leg cast and crutches at school for weeks.

 

For what?
VANITY.

 

The V word; an excessive and sometimes inflated concern of one’s appearance and achievements.

It starts young obvs, when we learn that our worth is tied to our looks. And if life appeared to look good on the outside, it didn’t need to align with the insecurity, fear and humanity that was going on on the inside.

It’s a journey of judging and being judged.

Unattainable beauty standards.

Full lashes and $50 palettes.

Photoshop and filters.

False promises of smoother, tighter, wrinkle-free.

Trends and unfulfilled promises.

Highlights and lowlights.

9 out of 10 women see visible improvements in just 10 days.

 

But we’re still never good enough.

 

And there are huge industries taking advantage of our need to sculpt a desired image.

Some stats:

In 2018 the beauty and personal care industry generated $89.5 billion in the U.S.
$16.5 billion was spent on cosmetic procedures.

A 2017 survey commissioned by Groupon tracked year-round spending on appearance by 2,000 women and men. Titled The True Cost of Beauty, the results reveal:

Women who spend on their appearance regularly spend $3,756 or $225,360 over a lifetime. Men spend $2.920 annually or $175.000 over a lifetime.

Women spend the most on facials, haircuts, makeup, manicures and pedicures.
Men spend the most on facial moisturizers, gym memberships, hand cream, shaving products, and supplements.

30% of women would consider plastic surgery to help maintain a youthful appearance.

 

I never felt like I looked good enough.

 

In 1976 the famous Farrah Fawcett red swimsuit poster was released. I was so envious of her flawless sparkling smile. I remember counting how many of her perfect white teeth you could see in the poster. 18, even with her head tipped.

I’m agnostic and in middle school prayed to God for bigger boobs for weeks. Prayers not answered.

I pulled all of my hair in front of my face, made a ponytail, and cut it because Seventeen magazine put a model who supposedly did this cut on the cover.

At 18 I took an acne drug that was so strong it could cause birth defects.

I started wearing makeup regularly in high school and ever since, put daily effort into hair, makeup, thinness, clothes and accessories. With a conservative estimate of 45 minutes a day of “getting ready”, I’ve spent at least 11,497 hours on vanity since I was 15. That’s more than 1 ¼ years.

For whom? OTHERS.

Okay…maybe mostly others because I actually love fashion and beauty. Clothes have always been my armor. I get giddy in Sephora. It’s fun to dress up, or discover a new serum that smells so spa-like that you want to eat it.

 

The difference in my 50’s is that I care less and less about the others.

 

And as I do, I chip away more and more of that self-haty thing we grew up with.

Haven’t you given up enough of your time to others?

TBH…

I ignore the varicose veins, and cellulite on my ass- It’s more important to have strong legs and glutes.

Bat wings on my upper arms? Whatever. I can do overhead presses, and carry heavy groceries.

Haven’t worn a bra for years. My comfort’s more important than your comfort.

I prioritize athleticism over glossy full lips, endurance over beachy wavy hair, flexibility over pedicures.

 

In middle age, it’s not an either/or choice;
to keep up with unachievable beauty standards OR let it all go.

 

It’s also not about looking 30 (Google knows so stop).
It’s about liberating yourself from the need to please others before pleasing yourself.

So baby that botox, do that 10 step nightly skin care regime, get the vampire facial, go gray, wear socks with Crocs…or not.

Do whatever the hell you want. Don’t hold back and don’t apologize.

I know, and you know you’re damn worth it.

BTW- to see how the online world tricks you into seeing perfection when it doesn’t exist, take a scroll @Danaemercer on Instagram.