The Perfect 10 - Settling Old Scores

I believe every woman knows she is perfect, whether she externally matches the popular standard of  ‘Hot’ness or ‘Not’ness. A still, small voice of genuine self-love stirs her Sleeping Beauty. The thorny bramble of inherited lies and myths may dominate because she expects some (br)Other to champion her  pilgrimage through the fairytale. I believe every woman deserves to be a ‘10’ to at least one person in her life, and that person should be herself.

Tiger Woods dissed Elin’s  Swedish blonde-haired, blue-eyed 10-ness, and Rhianna’s West Indian perfection couldn’t slay the woman-eating dragon unleashed by her  rap prince. Physical beauty and authentic love are not mutually exclusive it’s true; but we persist in a dead end direction. We pamper the fruits and ignore the roots of our existence.

Growing up in the 60s around U.W.I., Trinidad, my playmates were children of expatriates. Their diverse cultures were an education; and none so  life affecting as that wave of media sweeping the globe: Playboy.  There they were, in Cecily and Amy’s family room. Stacked one on top the other, the magazines measured up to our (eight year old) ears.

I had never encountered or been told “No” to this specific, new thing but when Cecily unfolded the full color centerfolds, I debated the impressions unsettling my “innersense”. My own girlness reduced, the world felt unsafe for soft, pink beauty. I threatened to tell, but my friends didn’t flinch.  I called their bluff only to experience a deeper shock. Both their parents appeared nonchalant about the stack of naughtiness, “It’s natural dear. That’s all right.”

Staving off moral analysis, the negativity was rooted in the anxiety I felt.  Would I ever measure up to their parading perfection? These women the Daddies desired and the Mummies competed against for the oxygen of male attention, had nothing to do with my world. Why had they  been invited into our homes? Why no " Wife and Mother "  the standard of beauty in the home? I have wondered for decades.

Such over exposure, tacitly condoned even more today, plants seeds of profound insecurity into vulnerable childhood psyches; seeds that take many years of conscious self-inquiry to uncover and neutralize. And not before  we emulate as “natural” these trinket-sized icons of female power.

At thirteen, I pressed my brother’s best friend to rate my beauty on a scale of one to ten.

“You know how beautiful you are.”

I flip flopped inside. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt me? Or was it that he couldn’t handle me feeling too good about myself? Eventually, I got an ‘8’ and pretended to happily accept. A gnawing feeling persisted though.  Why wouldn’t he withhold a notch or two for the sake of his own pride and dominance? His admiring glances towards me were no secret. With further prodding I got him to rate a friend or two at a mere ‘6’, ‘7’ at best. Having won the competition I’d staged, I passionately argued in their defense. They were in my eyes, perfect ‘10’s. My insecurity prodded me into joining the game of feeling “more than” at the expense of my sisters.

Immaturity dictated throughout my twenties. My sense of self was derived mostly from ensuring that I never held the raw end of that see-sawing yardstick. It could be lonely, exhausting and expensive, but all that mattered was securing a position as high up the “10”-scale as possible.

With Grace, the next decade of self healing, provided revelations of true, uncontrived beauty within. Once upon a time I made a spontaneous apology to someone I had ridiculed as “narrow minded” years earlier because of his religious beliefs about contraception. The poignancy and potency of my self-admission may have been lost to the activity of that day if I had not, on the way home, seen a traffic-stopping woman. My attention automatically poured in her direction. Habitual thoughts of comparative stupor triggered that secret covenant. The one we make  entrusting our eyes as a wholly reliable scout of facts. This time however, the illusion  was shattered by the reality of the preceding moment when I had admitted my wrong-doing to a person I had hurt.

That still small voice coaxed the new growth within, “She looks beautiful, but has she been beautiful today as you just have?”

My Prince was unraveling my specific thicket of feminine F.E.A.R (False Evidence Appearing Real). I had begun learning how to choose my true self, without rejecting or competing over physical beauty.The choice to be humble and sincere with a  fellow human being was making its way onto my five star list.

The Pretty Princess measurement syndrome does not have to take decades, as it did for me, before giving way to the Queendom that awaits. There, the true King will remind  us at every stage of our lives, “fall in love with yourself again and again”. 

In the sprit of the metaphor in which each of us is an original snowflake or better perhaps, to look to our own bodies, each as unique as our own finger print  - I believe each woman is created to be her own standard of beauty, without rejecting anyone else’s.

You will know you’re a ‘10’ when  being  BEA-U-TI-FUL spells itself: BE YOU TIL FULL.*

(*Spiritual Dictionary at www.namastepublishing.com)