I was reading the Dear Sugar column on The Rumpus this morning (which is actually 3:00 in the afternoon, because my schedule is bananas). The column was what it usually is, an entertaining response to a generally well-written, if slightly mundane, letter.  When I read this:

…perhaps the body is our final frontier. It’s the one place we can’t leave. We’re there till it goes.  Most women and some men spend their lives trying to alter it, hide it, prettify it, make it what it isn’t, or conceal it for what it is. But what if we didn’t do that?

We don’t know—as a culture, as a gender, as individuals, you and I. The fact that we don’t know is feminism’s one true failure. We claimed the agency, we granted ourselves the authority, we gathered the accolades, but we never stopped worrying about how our asses looked in our jeans. There are a lot of reasons for this, a whole bunch of Big Sexist Things We Can Rightfully Blame. But ultimately, like anything, the change is up to us.

And there it is.  Even the strongest, baddest, wittiest, smartest, and fiercest among us still struggle with our bodies.  I am confident.  I am smart.  I have a kick ass job.  I am good at my kick ass job.  And yet, I still spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about how I look.  Trying to lose weight (but claiming I just want to be healthy).  Spending money on makeup (and being annoyed at how long it takes to put it all on).  Wishing the dark circles under my eyes would go away (instead of getting some sleep).

Despite all my feminist leanings, despite every women’s study course I took, despite the fact that I have amazing, strong, wonderful role models in my life, I still struggle to attain some sort of perfection that is wholly unattainable.  I profess belief in a God who has created us in her own image.  I can readily believe that you are wonderfully and beautifully made.  Why can’t I believe that about myself?