Rachel Davis

While browsing the aisles of an area bookstore last winter, I discovered that March is, apparently, Women’s History Month. Proudly displayed were many intelligent and provocative works by and about women.

For a moment, my heart swelled with the knowledge that women’s contributions were being acknowledged—if only through another poorly-recognized “national history month.” That swelling heart quickly deflated, though, when I saw, next to the impressive display of women’s history books…drum roll please…beauty and weight loss books. Flatten your abs! Sculpt your butt and thighs! Create smoldering, pouty lips! Get the body every man wants!

Can you feel the progress, ladies? Can ya feel it?

Sadly, there was more. Stacked on the very same table as the women’s history books were dating books and magazines: “50 Ways to Please a Naked Man!” “The Rules of Dating,” and “Getting to I Do.”

Once again, female lives and contributions had been reduced to little more than our ability to look pretty and find a mate. I sincerely hope I’m not the only person who finds this disturbing.

When I left the bookstore that evening, I wasn’t focused on women’s history. Instead, I spent the night contemplating how I’ve allowed myself to be caught up in slowing its progress.

For too many years, I have perpetuated the importance of my “looking good” by buying into the notion that, with enough makeup, with flatter abs, or with smoother skin, the world could be my oyster. I have returned, endlessly, to the many expensive bottled fountains of youth, certain that my oyster will eventually turn up—complete with a pearl to highlight my eyes and accent my cheekbones.

My value begins with the physical, I have learned. It’s a lesson that began nearly with my birth, and has been repeated to me in monk-like chants throughout my lifetime. Smoothing my wrinkles, toning my calves, and coloring my hair will prepare me for a better life. When I’m thinner and prettier and wrinkle-free, I will enjoy life, attract a soulmate, and finally start down the road to my happily-ever-after.

Who am I kidding? And what drives this obsession with the physical? What allows an otherwise smart woman to temporarily abandon her intelligence in favor of lotions and potions and peels? No doubt that ever-present and oft-cursed devil “the media” shoulders some blame—but I’m smart enough to recognize the pervasive power of these damaging and destructive messages. Right?

I’m not suggesting that society’s focus on appearance is always vain and ill-conceived, particularly when that focus is on healthy appearances, which give us self-confidence and allow us to feel stronger and live longer. I’m just saying that, for once, I’d like to be valued most for my mind. For once, I’d like to truly believe that the size of my brain matters more than the size of my breasts.

I’m not suggesting that society’s emphasis on sex and marriage is always unhealthy, either. I just want to believe that—whether I’m single, married, divorced, or widowed—my worth as a human being will remain unchanged. I don’t want to fear, no matter how egalitarian my husband, that I’ll always end up somehow responsible for cooking and cleaning. I don’t want to fear that a boyfriend who professes to admire and respect my intelligence could turn into a husband who resents and smothers it.

Truth be told, I hope to be a good wife one day. But whenever I try to define her in a way that’s consistent with the social messages surrounding me, I’m always left with an impossible-to-achieve combination of Harvard-educated sex kitten who keeps an immaculate home while cheerfully preparing healthy and delicious meals after returning home from her six-figure career as a nuclear scientist-slash-humanitarian-slash-Victoria’s Secret cover model who volunteers her time at animal shelters and soup kitchens, knowing each displaced dog and cat and hungry family by name. She’s ridiculously smart, extraordinarily beautiful, and flawlessly humble. Her hobbies include not only sewing and baking, but also closely following the NFL while pillow-fighting with her Victoria’s Secret buddies.

I am not this woman. And here’s the big, ugly secret—one that’s taken me far too many years to figure out: no one is.

So beginning today, I refuse to funnel these unhealthy fixations any further through the generations. I will no longer profess to nurture my mind and spirit while simultaneously “nurturing” my appearance with gobs of makeup and ridiculously tight clothing made possible through starvation diets and meal replacement bars. I will no longer curse that beautiful reflection greeting me from my mirror each morning, wishing just a little more here, a little less there. Beginning today, I will do everything in my power to embrace the person I’ve fought so fiercely to become. After all, I refuse to devote a lifetime committed to raising an intelligent and confident daughter, only to see her beautiful confidence eroded at adolescence by fears of being “too fat,” “too stupid,” or “too ugly.”

For perhaps the first time, I am able to recognize my real value and appreciate my true beauty—no Pilate’s videos or skin serums necessary.