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And even though I am a feminist and even though I am religious, I secretly believe, in some mean little rat part of my brain, that I AM my skin, my hair, and worst of all, those triangles of fat that pooch at the top of my thighs. In other words, that I am my packaging. Even though both feminism and Christianity have taught me that I am my spirit, my heart, all that I have survived over the years and all that I have given, still a funny thing happened ... I looked in the mirror, and sighed, and thought to myself, I will cut my eyes out.

Then this little-kid voice, this Tweety-bird voice, said, "We need to pray." I sighed again. Eventually I lowered my face into the palms of my hands. I know you have bigger fish to fry, I said to God, but I need a little help with this stupidity.

(p. 172)

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I was trying to spend less time thinking about what I see and more time thinking about why I see it that way -- why I continue, off and on, to see these nice sturdy high-functioning thighs with such contempt. It's so troubling to relapse in this area, especially since somewhere along the line, I have actually come to believe that a person being herself is beautiful -- that contentment and acceptance and freedom are beautiful. And most important, I have discovered I am clinically and objectively beautiful.

I really mean this in the literal sense. I believe that if you saw me, you would say, "Wow! What a beautiful woman."

I think.

I'm almost sure.

Until recently, I was afraid to say that I am beautiful out loud for fear that people would look at each other with amusement and think to themselves, Well, isn't that nice. But somehow I was not afraid to say it anymore.

(p. 200-201)

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- from traveling mercies, by anne lamott