Please Don’t Let Me Be Like Madonna

Photo by Jose Martinez on Unsplash

I’ve got a great body. Well, great-ish.

Of course I’ve got the normal complaints of a woman my age (37) who’s had a baby: some loose skin, cellulite that’s stuck around since my teens and that I should really be used to by now, premature wrinkles from too many late nights and probably not enough expensive skin creams. But for the most part, my “flaws” are easily hidden and I have a feminine, enviable figure that’s kept its generally flattering shape over the years. I have tattoos that I love: all flora, fauna, and celestial bodies.

I’m pretty, too, but insecure in that annoying way that I imagine all pretty people are. When your looks are part of your identity (and they always are for women), the idea that you’re “slipping” is as horrifying as it is eye-roll-inducing.

I read last week that Madonna controls the lighting everywhere she goes, ensuring that it’s always flattering. I’ve never been a fan of her music itself, but have always been fascinated by her as a public figure. I feel I understand her need to control how others see her. We’re both Leos, and crave admiration and possibly worship.

I know that looks don’t matter, or that they shouldn’t matter, anyway. But “knowing” isn’t believing, and the knotted strings of self-worth, psyche, and vanity have thus far been fairly impossible for me to…