She has a couple of scars on her left hand. Unrelated, but both from burns. These tiny little flaws bother her.
It bothers me that they bother her. The way even the most beautiful creature ruminates on a few and barely noticeable blemishes. As if she loses points for this. As if everyone notices and thinks less of her for this. I've shown her how the world is airbrushed and prettified mechanically and artificially. I've gotten frothy in the mouth over studies that illustrate the damage we do with our not-of-this-world beauty ideals.
And yet, haven't I stood before the bedroom mirror fretting over the deep crease in my brow? Haven't I spent money on pots of magic in hopes of putting my hand against the chest of time to hold it back? Haven't I dusted my bosom and clavicle and shoulders with shimmer for an evening out?
Precisely where is that line between pride in one's health and appearance, and neurosis?
I'd like to find it, mark it in glow-in-the-dark paint, and stand with her just this side of it, laughing.