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This new distance between yourself and your reflection, put there by whatever moral compass you live by and however you’ve breeched it, is the feeling they were talking about. There are some shitty things we do that make us feel shitty about ourselves, which might spill over into the way we feel about how we look. So you sent a nude to your best-friends ex? That’s bad. You walked out of an independent restaurant and you know they forgot to put the mains on the check? Not great.
Just last week at a very chic gallery opening, I was telling the story of my backstreet botched Botox drama to a model and her very chic friend. And they both told me that it’s fine to have no answers, to go through the motions of the ugly-not-ugly roundabout because “everyone is ugly at twenty-eight.” They were joking about the age, but they also kind of weren’t. Everyone is kind of ugly at twenty-eight. Or thirty-eight. Or at some point in their life when their sense of self-worth is sunken by the feelings of inadequacy or the idea that you’ve been treating your body “badly.” This might come when you’re particularly hungover, when you’ve eaten nothing but fries for an entire week, or when you’ve done something actually not so nice like bitching about a friend behind their back.
I was reminded of these impossible decisions last month when a friend of mine took his second dose of Ozempic. He messaged me the following: “Would you rather be thin and have vertigo, or fat and able to walk without wanting to pass out?” And it became an actual debate, one which on the surface sounds easy to answer in this world of self-love at any weight. But the toxic parts of us were forced into a spiral. We went round and round deciding that what we really want is to not think about food and weight and desire and morality all the time. And there is no drug for that. When he eventually called his doctor about the dizziness, the doctor said “great that the weight is coming off!”
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