In my life, I've often wondered why exactly people are so self-obsessed, particularly with their image. I know I'm attractive, maybe that's why I'm in love with myself. It may sound conceited, but I don't really care, you can't argue with the truth. Anyway, that's besides the point. The point is, why are we so obsessed?
I recently start waitressing at a bar-restaurant near my new house near school. I live in a rather upper-class area, and their is a particular stereotype of the people that are native to this area. To put it simply, they're the country club type. I've had my share of experience with this type, as I lifeguarded at a country club for the previous two summers, and there is are two molds for these types of people.
Generally, the father is some sort of successful professional [insert businessman, lawyer, doctor, entrepreneur, etc] married to a trophy wife with the perfect children. Hopefully the mother cares enough about her children to actually care for them, but sometimes she cares more about herself than about them, as seen in her size 2 toned body.
The second mold, and the one that I prefer, is the successful father with the perfect children, but also involves a motivated, working mother that has a career of her own. I actually like this type of woman a lot; she graduated from college with the intent of working, not with the intent of finding a husband, but also expects to have a the perfect family and live in a beautiful large home. It was a woman like this that encouraged me to pursue my budding interest in law school last summer.
Every Friday night, the restaurant that I work at has a dance party for these country club types, let's call them Shore Goers, over the ago of fifty. It was at the third dance party that I worked at last week that I had an enlightened moment as to why we are so obsessed with our image.
A tan, thin woman donning a fitted purple knee-length dress approached me, fanning herself with a red and white paper fan. She leaned against the table that I stood next to, waiting for me to talk to her, about herself of course.
Suzanne, as I found out, was a 60-year-old widow of seven years who came to the restaurant every Friday night. Dancing was her exercise she said. She had two children and six grandchildren, and while her oldest son often pleaded with her to babysit, she had a life of her own, as she said.
"You look great," I told her. "I wouldn't believe you were sixty unless you told me yourself." Though my compliment was slightly facetious, it was mostly genuine.
"I know I look great," she responded. I must have looked taken aback because she said, "I know I'm vain. I always have been. My appearance means everything to me. It's who I am to the rest of the world. It's how people see you."
With that, Suzanne spotted an older gentleman in a creamsicle colored button down and dashed across the dance floor in his direction, never giving me a second thought.
While I watched the rest of the dance party that night, including Suzanne flaunt her size 4 fit body in leopard print pumps, I realized that she was right.
In most ways, at least.
A person's appearance is how he or she represents themselves to the outside world. Though we may not boast it, we all know that first impressions mean a great deal and sweeping judgments are made as a result of appearances. Though I didn't agree with Suzanne's neglect of her grandchildren for her 'life of her own,' I did admire her confidence. The fact that Suzanne was confident about being a 60-year-old widow and grandmother, with a bangin' body, made me wonder, why shouldn't she show it off?
I got to thinking ... I've spent 21 years in this body, might as well be proud of it.
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