Let Me Explain: Oh, it’s Maybelline, all right

I had an embarrassingly narcissistic moment the other day. Let me explain.

So, I was drinking my coffee and amaretto (it’s OK; it was after noon . somewhere), when I caught sight of my reflection in the liquid’s bubbles. I was mesmerized. I tilted my head back and forth and watched my likeness do the same. I bobbed my head like a pigeon, stuck out my tongue and shouted several choice expletives as the hot drink sloshed all over my lap. I had learned a lesson. Don’t imitate animals.

America’s Next Top Model and its subsequent spin-offs would suggest that a girl doesn’t have to look like a Victoria’s Secret model to succeed; a fierce attitude and realized potential are enough. And yet, the winners of these superficial shows fade into the oblivion, like cheap perfume after an eventful night of flirty old men and too many cocktails.

What is it that motivates professional models (those who shamelessly fill Facebook photo albums and walk to class as though walking a runway don’t count) to wear silly costumes, pose in uncomfortable ways and live in a hall of mirrors? And how does someone come to the conclusion that she is just attractive enough to profit off of her looks?

What is perhaps most important is the delusion that we have all suffered from at some point in our lives: The Hideously Unattractive Delusion. You wake up one morning and think, “I look like a boy today.” (Which, if you are, in reality, not a boy, you find to be a very disheartening thought.) Or, someone will look at you strangely, causing you to wonder, “Do they stare because I resemble a sheepdog this lovely April morn? I knew I should’ve taken more time with my hair.”

Why can’t the narcissistic moments be a constant in our lives? Why can’t we believe that we’re beautiful or handsome or foxy, or what have you, when it counts, like when we’re asking someone out or when reclining on a casting director’s couch?

Sure, we all have the Kelly Kapowski breakdown moments, lamenting over a pimple, flattened hair or limited wardrobe. But this shouldn’t taint an entire day/week/month.

We search for someone with whom to share a reciprocated love-a love that will elevate us and make us feel grand about our awkwardness and pleased with our stomach rolls. It shouldn’t take someone else to make us feel satisfied-we should first be satisfied by our own volition. Easier said than done, of course.

Our mothers attempt to soothe us by saying that models are only airbrushed anyhow, yet this only fuels our desire for plastic surgery, the notion that if we change our physical appearance, it will alter how we feel inside. We should be satisfied by the industry of fa?ade. It serves as proof that these models, who are plastered onto billboards and earn boatloads of money for removing their clothes and smiling, aren’t perfect, either.

So, why do we yearn to look like a computer-generated image of constructed perfection? It’s fake-and I don’t want to be someone who’s fake.

Doesn’t it just piss you off? I say we get up off of our admittedly untoned behinds, bare those beautiful gap-toothed grins and set out to keep the world sexy by keeping it unique. Good luck, you saucy minx, you. Maintain your steadfast faith in your own loveliness, and you’re bound to exude that inner love.

Whatever. I’m getting cheese fries.