It’s 11 pm, and I’m sulking in bed. I’m trying to distract myself with some light literature that involves a scam marriage, a 100 million dollar inheritance, and a ritzy private wedding on an island paradise. My phone lights up, and in the corner of my eye, a picture of myself from a few years ago pops up. I’m tanned like a coconut, my hair falls just above shoulder length, with blonde streaks, and I’m posing in front of the mirror wearing a neon pink bikini, holding a beer can. Classy right? 😂 Thanks, Google Photos!
One photo of myself inadvertently lures me back to my phone. Oh no, this is not a good idea… I start scrolling back through years and years of photos of myself. Different eras, hair colors, friends, boys, and trips. A tear starts forming in my eyes. Damn these hormones.
I’m finding myself feeling sad because of what radiates through those photos. I could see it in my eyes. Mischief and confidence that screamed, “I know I’m that bitch.” Even with those fat baby cheeks, ZERO curves, and ten grand to my name, I thought I was a hotshot! I had what you would call a spark that naturally drew people in.
If you put two photos of me side by side, one from five years ago, and one from the current day, you could objectively argue that I look better today. I no longer have cringey, overgrown roots. My hair is long, black (like intended), and luscious (as my boyfriend describes). My face has shed a bit of baby fat, and my masseters are smaller (thanks, Botox!). My style is more refined and proper. I own a designer bag that is worth someone’s monthly salary.
I look like a proper lady! So why do I feel so ick?
Get Smart, Get Hot, Get Rich!
I keep seeing this rhetoric going around on social media, targeting young women (as always). It goes by the saying, “Get smart, rich, then hot.” When this first came around, I was THE #1 advocate. I would idly chant this to my partner, imagining how great it would be when “we finally made it!” and we could afford, ahem, enhancement surgeries that would make us both look “hotter”!
Logically, this saying should tickle every feminist’s brain. Because no longer do you have to be a prisoner to what “God gave ya”. If you’re ugly, you can change it. You just have to become smart at getting rich sans MEN. Get that bag, girl!
But it didn’t take long for me to realize that this was just another shallow, poorly thought-out, clickbait argument that will pressure young women into doing procedures and things that aren’t going to make them more confident and happier in the long run.
All I see every day on my feed are smart, ambitious businesswomen who have foreheads that never move, silky skin, and perfect proportions. And of course, touting a $25k Hermes bag (but that’s a whole different topic). I get that the self-efficacy of securing one’s “bag” can be empowering. I totally, 100% get that. But it’s the proposed end goal of “Getting hot” after all that hard work you put into being financially successful, that bothers me. What’s even more jarring is the idea that being hotter is a ticket to becoming more financially successful. *Insert podcast clip of a businesswoman talking about how wearing makeup increases your income by 30%!” Because when is it ever enough? You get rich to get hot to get even richer?? Does it ever end?
Appearance enhancement procedures cost a lot. I’m just starting to realize this, as it’s the first time in my life I’ve tried injectables. I consider myself very lucky at this point in my life to have the disposable income to spend on Botox. I wouldn’t say I’ve had a lifelong insecurity about my strong masseters. I just thought having a square, boxy face was just what I was born with. But thanks to Instagram, where masseter botox has become a massive trend, I was convinced that I should get it. Has it had a major impact on my appearance? No, but it has got rid of the “boxiness” of my jawline. Do I need it? According to everyone, absolutely not. But it makes me feel a teeny bit better about myself. In reality, it’s just another form of control.
Control, Control, Control!
I realized that my recent obsession with my appearance is a two-pronged problem. One, to do with control, and the other, to do with social influence. It’s been a year since I went into business with my partner. And that year has been full of highs and lows, as I’m sure self-employed people would understand. The highs are riding on the coattails of successful campaigns, and making a year’s worth of savings in a month. The lows are failed campaigns, client criticism, late nights, and unpaid invoices.
When my workload is not consuming my entire day, I need a different outlet to project my deep-rooted anxiety. At first, when I wasn’t working, it was making my new home “perfect.” I would ponder on the couch for hours, looking around to see where pieces would go, and lament over silly details. Still to this day, I do not have a coffee table because there just isn’t one that’s “perfect” enough for this condo. Then came my skincare craze. I would watch hours of dermatology talks online, finding the next and best skincare. At 26, I started using retinol because influencers in their 40s were telling me they wished they had started using it in their 20s. OKAY I’M LISTENING!
Now that my skincare routine is pretty locked in, what’s next!? Let’s make more permanent changes: Botox, permanent makeup, and plastic surgery.
I’m not the type who frequently checks in on my net worth (ahem, like my partner), but I had to the other day for an investment profile. Adding up the numbers from my separate accounts, I was shocked. I didn’t know it was so high! I barely paid attention to how much we made in the business because I just had my head down the whole time.
Yet you know what. I don’t feel any different. I still feel the dread at the end of the month, that it’s never enough. I still worry about my measly credit card bill every month. In the grand scheme of things, I should feel happy and confident. I’m making more money than ever! I’m traveling every 2-3 months! I have a fantastic relationship and a man who provides me more than I could’ve ever dreamt. I have a beautiful, almost paid off home, and an adoring cat I love to bits and pieces. Yet, I haven’t felt confident in so long that I almost forgot it was a tangible thing.
The reality is, despite earning more and being more “skilled” at my work, I feel like a dimmer, blander version of myself. A woman whose uniform is either pajamas or beige outfits, silk blouses, or pastel modest dresses. In pictures, I look radiant and beautiful, but on the inside, I feel like I’m wearing a costume. The proper, elegant woman I worked so hard to become wasn’t making me happy like I thought. I missed the bit of adventure and scandal in my fashion choices, even though just a few months ago, as I was cleaning out my closet, those were the exact pieces I turned my nose up at. “This isn’t me anymore!”
I miss youth. This has been a concept that has never crossed my mind until now, because for the longest time, I saw myself as a kid. I’ve been looking so forward to turning 30. To have more money, get my shit together, have a capsule wardrobe, a house, and cars.
I equated my happiness to this illusion of making bricks of cash, and looking “hotter and younger” than ever. But as I slowly introduced these luxury purchases into my life and delved further into the appearance enhancement world, I realized that this may just be another toxic manifestation of a more deeply rooted issue.
The insatiety, the chase of perfection, and the hyperfocus on equating success and happiness with financial success. They say the number in your bank account will not make you feel better about yourself. I always called bullshit, that’s only something the rich say to keep the poor, poor! But I’m just starting to realize, maybe, just maybe there’s something there…
I hope a few years, I can look back at this and feel sorry for my younger self, I truly do. Mostly because I’ll be in a completely different mindset, and I will have found myself again.
Secret Prose 
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