Let's Play a Guessing Game

What is soft and purple and ribbed all over?

No, it's not a pair of corduroys from Jcrew's fall collection.

It's my belly.

Of the many changes my body went through during pregnancy the least welcome was the addition of stretch marks. Many of them. In fact, my stretch marks are so severe that when I asked my doctor what I could use to help erase them she took one look and said, "Oh...you might want to consider laser treatment."

I didn't develop a single mark until I was midway through my eighth month- I had less than six weeks left in my pregnancy. I thought I was home free and then one morning I woke up and there they were- my first stretch marks. Yes, I used all the magic creams and oils, but surprise, they aren't magic and your doctor is right. It's all about skin tone and genetics. I try not to think about them because thinking about the reality, that my body has changed drastically, and probably permanently, makes me sad. My stretch marks and my scars now make up a sort of diary of what my body has been through, what it's done and where it's been. I look in the mirror now and I don't see me, I see the two surgeries, the pregnancy and the stretched out scar tissue that is a sad reminder of what used to be an adorable belly ring. They make me feel old. It's similar to the feeling you have after you've dinged your new car a couple of times and you finally realize that it's no longer the flashy new ride you drove off the dealer's lot.

The stretch marks more than any other change in my body have prompted me to consider my stance on cosmetic surgery. I've always been against it, believing that I'd rather look like my very own self the way that nature designed me than to fool around with my packaging and ending up a distorted version of myself. Of course, it's easy to say those things at 25, never having grappled with scarring, stretching, aging or sun damage. I don't recognize my body anymore. Yes, these changes are a map of where I've been, they are a part of who I am now. I'm not the girl I was 5 years ago, fit and unblemished. I've done a lot of living since then. I've worked hard to move past the painful emotional events of my life and to heal them. Why shouldn't I do the same for the damage that life has done to my body?

I've always approached cosmetic surgery as an extreme that people take to try to escape themselves, to try to be something or someone that they're not. But since the surgeries, and particularly since the baby, I find myself wishing I could fix some of my changes- not flaws, exactly, but changes- to find my way back to my "own" body; my old body. The idea that I have to change all the way down to my very skin in order to take on this new role is overwhelming. I do understand what a gift pregnancy is and I'm deeply grateful that this door was opened to me, and if having this baby and growing her in my body and experiencing the miracle of birthing her had meant gaining weight forever or having stretch marks right across my face then I still would have done it. She is worth it. She really is. Missing the old me, what I looked like and what my body could do, how it felt and what I could wear, doesn't negate that. But I miss the packaging I came in with. I know that some changes are inevitable, and maybe all this wondering and wishing takes place because some part of me believes that if I could get rid of the pounds and the stretching and the scarring that I'd have a second chance, be able to erase the parts of the story that I don't like by destroying the evidence. Or maybe a little lasering or few shots, a peel or maybe a little tuck is just taking advantage of what the world has to offer. How different is it, really, than putting on some spanx under my dress, or highlighting my hair?

What exactly, in this age of Botox and Restylane and non-surgical facelifts, even constitutes cosmetic surgery anymore? At what point, along the broad spectrum from lipstick to full tummy tucks, do we go from wanting to be our best to wanting to be something or someone else? To refusing or denying who we really are in favor of a more acceptable package? Where is the line between wanting to look and feel good for ourselves and trying to push ourselves toward (someone else's idea of) perfection? The answers are different for all of us.

The dilemma I face when I consider my appearance (and the lengths I'm willing to go to in order to change or maintain it) involves my daughter. I want to raise a strong, confident woman who loves herself and her body. Can I do that without loving my own body? I need to make the decisions I would want her to make. I know that. But that doesn't turn off the voice inside my head that tells me that this part could be a little leaner, that part a little tighter or a little higher, my teeth a little straighter or a little whiter.

I want to hear from you women out there. All of my readers are women, all are friends, so tell me: where is the line for you? How far are you willing to go for appearances? Where do you draw your line? Talk to me. Tell me how you find peace with your body or why you can't. Tell me how you find your line, how you create balance between striving to be your best and accepting your limitations. Where does the quest stop for you? How far are you willing to go? Who in your life influences your decisions? Whose life will you influence with yours?