the whole plate.

In my most recent attempt to tidy my perpetually disorganized bedroom, I delved deep into my closet, reaching for the pile that lay below some old and abandoned dresses: my winter boots.  As I arranged the shoes from heap to row, I paused over an old pair.  Spring clean after spring clean, I simply won’t throw them away.

They’re suede, an impractical material for the slushy winters of any city I’ve lived in.  They have tassels on the back, which tend to whip my calves as I walk – again, impractical when walking is my main mode of transport.  And the left toe is nearly nonexistent, frayed and worn beyond repair, as my shoemaker has repeatedly broken to me.

But I can’t toss them away.  They don’t feel shabby – only well-loved.  The vanishing toe provides character; it tells stories of crosstown walks and accidental rain exposure.  It reflects my style, adding a touch of the vintage and the antique.  In fact, worn as they are, I think I prefer them beyond their mint condition.

In the realm of beauty, oddity has always attracted me.  Perhaps that is why I stood captivated over buckets of heirloom tomatoes during this week’s farmer’s market visit.  Creased with dirt, misshapen, seemingly unable to settle on a single color – they were gorgeous.  Sure, the next booth flaunted (less expensive) ruby-infused peppers, or squashes in uniforms of yellows and greens.  And yet, the undeniable quirks of the heirlooms entranced me – I’ll blame my aesthetics obsession for filling my grocery tote with two pounds.

A few years ago, I stopped wearing the sneakers and graphic t-shirts all my friends did.  I came home in costume jewelry and skinny jeans, and I faced incessant teasing.  But style was the first place where I finally learned to be myself, to put Leslie fearlessly on display.  So, while the comments bothered me, I still wore my gold flats to suburban bonfires.  I still kept myself warm with a heavy fringed scarf, rather than a college sweatshirt. And my confidence grew because of it.

It seems strange then, that I ever chased mainstream beauty.  It isn’t that I ever wanted to look like a runway model; quite the opposite, I’ve always believed the beauty in the female form stems from curves.  And yet, I fell into the trap, hiding a disappearing body under shapeless fabrics, losing the physical expression of who I was.

I’ve come to realize though, that the beauty in well, beauty, is in the imperfections.  The frayed lace, the old shoe, the stray hairs, the unmanicured nail.  The piece that stands out, not because of added polish, but because it is an anomaly.  

Part of learning to accept myself meant shedding any attempts at comparison.  I didn’t want to be, to look, or to emulate anyone else.  I didn’t want to be better or worse – only distinct.  Only my size, with my style, my accomplishments, my choices.  Only myself.

What do you love about your unique beauty?

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