No One Looks Good in Brown: And Other Things That My Grandmother Was Wrong About

My grandmother once told me, between puffs of cigarette smoke that I would never be as beautiful as my mother. This wasn't the first comment she had made about my physical appearance. It was just one particularly harsh anecdote among many, many others, like: "No one want's to buy an ugly apple," and "No one looks good in brown."
My opinions on the subject of beauty did not begin and end with my grandmother, though, she was indeed the source of many feelings of inadequacy and confusion.
While, now, well into my twenties, I have come to understand that my grandmother was so very wrong about so many things, she was right about one. Yes, my mother was and still is very beautiful; tan skin, long brown hair, doe eyes, a killer physique, even at fifty.
My father still comments, twenty eight years into their marriage, about how he can't believe he landed such a good looking wife. All the while, my mother stands in front of her full length, double panel mirror and scoffs at the dark circles under her eyes. She pulls the skin on her belly, evening out the stretch marks that she accrued over three pregnancies, almost two decades ago.
"What a drag it is, getting old," she always says. It's not her fault.

Now, I am almost twenty five years old, and I think, in actuality, I have come to resent beauty. I play along with it just enough to appease my husband; to feel feminine and reasonably attractive. I wear blush and mascara, I shave my legs, I use a night creme on my face. But that's about it. Of course I like to look nice, but I constantly struggle to find the value in working at being beautiful. Why even bother with attempts at improving my modest, mousy looks, if even my mother, whom I have been taught is my aesthetic superior, can't even muster the self confidence to accept herself, wrinkles, and all.
There are so many elements of appearance to be judged on these days, it seems that inevitably, I am doomed to fall short of beautiful. How could I amount to anything worth working for, if after all,  I will never be as beautiful as my mother- the very woman who made me- according to the very woman who made her. Maybe that is just defeatist, but I'm working it all out.
Okay, so I know that my grandma was way wrong. It's not that I will never surpass my mother in beauty - I don't think I need to do that - that's not a goal of mine. But, I know now, that I am inherently capable of being considered beautiful, just like her, and just like every woman is. There is no one standard for "it," and because that is true, there is no way of denying me, or anyone else the qualification.
While it's something that almost all of us seek, and I am obviously not exempt, it just feels, to me, that at a certain point, the pursuit of beauty can be such an unrewarding one. There are so many other things that I'd rather spend my time working towards, and it's just personal preference, to each her own, of course.

The things that I would rather be doing:
- Training for a marathon (or at least pretending to)
- Finishing all the books that I have started, and never finished
- Planting a vegetable garden
- Building a cedar chest
- Laying in the sun
-Learning to Fish (or just sitting in a little boat, on a lake somewhere. That'd be enough)

Things that I would rather spend my money on:
- A Costa Rican vacation
- A Kayak
- An upright piano
- Good wine (not that cheap stuff that comes in a jug, although I do always enjoy that)
- A really amazing pillow

I guess what I am looking for, at this point in my life, is some sort of middle ground, and I'll want to feel like I can rest there; happy with the woman that I am and the face that I am showing to the world when I leave my house every morning; more than happy, even, grateful.
My grandmother was not the most uplifting woman, as it would turn out, and I could probably trace a lot of my insecurities to the little comments that she would shuffle in to our everyday conversations. She probably thought they were harmless, or maybe she didn't care. She was raised in a different time. Yeah, I know.
I guess, all of this to say that I am over it and I am very much looking forward to the next half of my twenties as a more adjusted, confident woman, even if that woman doesn't exactly resemble a supermodel.