Comparatively Incomparable

As some of you may have noticed, I have added a You Tube vlog to my list of projects with which to distract myself from the fact that the only male who has kissed me in the last two and a half years that isn't a blood relative has four legs and a tail; (I kid...at least about the need for distraction).  I started 'The Confidence Project' in an effort to throw myself back into the outside world, and thus the dating world, one webisode at a time by putting myself through a series of challenges designed to loosen me up and make me feel like my existence was a valid one.  It's starting to work already, thanks to the comments I've received from the people who've viewed it so far (you know who you all are; I love you dearly).  It's also left me pondering the reasons people like myself suffer from this crippling lack of self esteem, and the one I'm going to focus on here is all too common: comparison.  I'm all too guilty of weighing up other people's assets and liabilities against my own, but does it serve any real purpose?  I'm thirty nine years old, and yet I still find myself looking at pictures of much younger celebrities like Lily Allen and Zooey Deschanel with awe, and casting an intensely critical eye upon my reflection.  I have dark hair.  I'm of roughly the same diminutive stature.  I'm reasonably attractive (my ability to admit this is only a recent development), so why don't I look like I could grace the cover of In Style or Harper's Bazaar?  Why does donning a baby doll dress similar to Lilly's make me feel more like Baby Huey than Indie Princess?  And why do I end up looking like a crack addict going cold turkey when I attempt the smokey eyed look that Zooey pulls off so well?  Because I'm not Lily Allen or Zooey Deschanel.  I'm Melissa Jane Moore, a thirty nine year old writer and mother of one who enjoys Junior Mints and Coca Cola, doesn't run unless something's on fire, and consequently has curves in a couple of places she shouldn't.

Lately, I've taken to beholding that thirty nine year old writer and mother of one in the mirror a little longer, and reminding her that she has fantastic skin, lovely eyes, and a figure that allows her to fill out her favourite red polka dot wiggle dress in a manner most pleasing to the eye, (and some lucky person's hands one day, I shouldn't wonder).  I then sit in front of my laptop and take pictures of her to post on Facebook, despite her misgivings, to let the rest of the world look upon her, and bring her that much closer to being a part of it again.