Glow-up
stuck in a cycle that revolves around perfection
(The song Doing Better by FLETCHER sort of inspired me to write this)
If you were to go on Pinterest right now, you’d see a plethora of advice sprawled onto kitschy layouts, giving instructions on how to have a “glow-up.” The desire to change or improve one’s physical appearance is something I can deeply understand. It’s what I’ve gravitated towards anytime I was feeling heartbroken, or sad, or lonely. My appearance was something that I had some semblance of control over. Control over what I eat, how well I take care of my body - every tiny inch of my appearance started to feel so much more visible as a single divorcee. I didn’t know what to do with all the pain I was feeling; that I’ve felt over the last ten months, especially. So I used discipline and attention to detail as an outlet to channel my suffering. If I’m being completely honest, I had the thought, “I want to become someone who is completely out of their league; I want to be untouchable.”
As I write this I still get uncomfortable and am overwhelmed by regret and the urgency to take action. Towards what… at the moment I’m not sure what else I can do.
Abiding by the rules of the male gaze is something that is deeply buried in most women’s psyches. So much so that sometimes we don’t even realize its pestering existence. A woodpecker knocking on our brains. Seeping into our cells and clouding the majority of what we think. It’s impossible to separate ourselves from it’s lingering, looming presence. We’re fused together…endlessly enmeshed. I’d be lying if I acted as though this didn’t play a role in my own attempts at a “glow-up.” I shudder even saying the phrase.
In her novel The Robber Bride, Margaret Atwood flawlessly describes this phenomenon, “Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever present watcher peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
I’ve always known that there are conventional ways I’m actively choosing that appeal to the male fantasy; visually. Long hair. Blond. Thinness that is unnatural for me to sustain - though I must be careful not to become too thin or I’ll lose my “assets.” Make-up, “natural”- but not too much (men often cannot differentiate). But how do you separate your personal preference from what is theirs? There is always someone peering through the keyhole - big brother nodding their heads yes in acceptance or shaking their heads no in disagreement with your choices, head to toe.
The issue that comes with attempting to reach your own version of perfection is that you do ultimately reach a limit. And despite the aesthetic alterations; the improved physique, the brighter smile, a tighter waist, the pleasant disposition (she goes with the flow!) it doesn’t protect you from the pain of rejection. Which I believe is what often inspires a “glow-up.” Armor against rejection.
It did not protect me.
This dilemma reminds me of the “cool girl” monologue from the movie Gone Girl.
“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they?”
“She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”
Amy Dunne in Gone Girl was a feminist icon if you ask me.
Amy Dunne was the “Cool Girl,” gave her husband every last dime of her inheritance, and she still was cheated on.
The voyeur in my brain will likely remain strong and consistent, rearing its face next to mine each time I look in the mirror. It doesn’t bother me. It just is.
I have noticed one element of my appearance change that I suspect others may notice as well. A change that has been unintentional. My eyes now have a presence behind them. There is light. When I come across older photos of myself, my eyes appeared…half-dead. Lifeless. As if the personhood attached to them, the human that owned them, was lost, as if I had found a way to escape my physical body.
Disassociated.
That mini death is why I was able to come “back to life” in the first place. I needed that experience to know what not living felt like.
Self improvement feels good. I won’t diminish that. Unfortunately it doesn’t protect you from future harm or heartbreak and it doesn’t guarantee that people will still not see what you want them to see in you. Concurrently, rejection forces you to re-build a tiny piece of yourself that was previously fixated on the rejector. Like a lizard re-growing its tail. Though this regrowth needs to be internal. After looking at my face, my body, my physical presence for months, obsessing over each miniscule detail; it becomes monotonous and feels excessively vain (even for me).
Internal change is grueling. I know this already, after what I endured last year. Is it worth it? Honestly, it feels like it’s the only option. Sink or swim.