I watch the joggers in the morning as they pass me on the sidewalk, their feet pounding the pavement relentlessly with intent expressions blank and void of pain.  Walking makes me wince now.  My knees have begun to ache and my fingers clench uncontrollably in the cold.

I'm not even thirty.  But I feel so old.

Why is it that I can't believe what I know to be true?  That beauty is not skin deep, and the measure of true worth is how I live my life.  Because the mirror I look into each morning has turned into a microscope, enlarging, magnifying, pointing to every flaw.

Bad eyes, bad teeth, bad skin.  Bad.  Negative.  The world tells me to change.

Salvation in a bottle, only ninety-nine ninety nine, plus taxes.  A pill a day keeps the stretch lines away.  Suck it up, suck it out.  You too can have the butt, thighs, breasts, abs, teeth of your favourite celebrity.  Why stop there?  Steal their nose, their lips, their hair colour.

I'm a feminist.  I believe that beauty is a creation, constructed largely by men, bought into by women.  Yet I still hate my body.  I can't stand myself.

Love is difficult.  How can anyone find me attractive when I cringe at the sight of my own body?
Nakedness is not sensual.  Nakedness is flaming embarrassment and turning off the lights.  I see perfection around me, but not in me.  Beauty belongs to that elusive 'Other'.

How can one's beliefs be so diametrically opposed to one's feelings?  Victor says that when I fully accept my beliefs I will no longer feel the way I do.  When I really believe that beauty doesn't matter, then I won't hate myself.  I won't feel that I am unlovable, undesirable, and meant to live alone, the spinster lady with a hundred cats.  Cat's don't judge.  Cats grow fat and enjoy it.

Victor believes that I can overcome my obsession with my body.  Victor is a man.

I am a woman.  I am not a beautiful woman.

I think I'll go to the SPCA tomorrow.  My cat is looking lonely.