Beautylicious
The office of my surgical oncologist must be in the plastic surgery annex of the hospital. There is a poster on the exam room door asking patients if they are bothered by the fullness beneath their chin (and offering a solution to that “problem”), as well as a display in the waiting room promising that “everyone will notice but no one will know” that the patient has had some sort of wrinkle reduction procedure. (There’s no such promise made for cancer patients, however. Everyone notices and everyone knows). Sitting in these spaces a few months ago, I wished I was one of the lucky people who had the time and energy to worry about the fullness under my chin. I couldn’t imagine electing to do medical procedures that weren’t necessary. As it was, I was being thrown into chaos and had no choice in the matter.
A few weeks later I was in the airport traveling home to visit family before beginning chemotherapy. Perusing the magazines on display at a book store, I noticed one called “The Ultimate Guide to Cosmetic Enhancement,” offering advice such as “15 New Reasons to Love Botox.” Naturally, this magazine was surrounded by the usual assortment of other titles encouraging women to lose 15 pounds by the next holiday or work for their best butt ever.
Beauty standards have annoyed me for years, for a variety of reasons. But lately I’ve discovered a new cause for my dislike.
It’s not that beauty standards expect too much of women. It’s that they expect too little.
What a sorry state I would be in if the women in my life were merely beautiful.
Don’t get me wrong, I will be the first to tell you that my friends and family members are indeed gorgeous on the outside.
But being physically beautiful? That’s easy.
Compassion, patience, selflessness, unconditional love, that’s the hard stuff.
The women in my life have sat all night on uncomfortable emergency room chairs for me. They’ve held the bucket as I puked, somehow doing so without making me feel shame. They’ve cooked me meals and sat with me during long chemo appointments. They’ve sat with me while I vented, offering no judgement. They’ve welcomed me and loved me and made me laugh. They’ve called and texted and sent encouraging notes and treats. They’ve prayed for me. They’ve taken care of me when I’m too weak to take care of myself.
They reach far past the narrow definition of womanhood set by, well, whoever and displayed on magazine racks and exam room doors. Their beauty extends infinitely beyond what we call standard.
Oh how I long for the day when the standard is to celebrate the whole woman, rather than just her outside appearance. Because I don’t need friends with perfect chins (although your chins all look lovely, ladies). I need friends who will hold the puke bucket. If anyone wants to make a magazine that celebrates that, let me know. I’ve got a long list of names of women you can feature.
