Victorious Secret. Laura Mary Phelps

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      — 1 Peter 3:3–4

      I was feeling pretty good about life and my place in it, until I scrolled through my Instagram feed and saw it.

      The pie.

      This perfectly baked cherry pie.

      And not only was it a beautiful and delicious-looking pie, but taken out of it was the perfect little bite. This glorious, gourmet cherry pie was plated on a perfectly worn piece of vintage china, with a single silver fork, gracefully placed on the edge of the plate. And as if that were not enough, this entire plate and pie was photographed on a rustic, distressed, and absolutely fabulous farm table.

      Now, some people might scroll right past that pie. Because I mean, honestly, who cares? Big deal. You made yourself a pie and took a picture of it. Congratulations. Whatever. But not me. You want to know the bag of crazy that popped into my mind when I saw that beautiful pie?

      How on earth did she have the time to bake that? Why did she bake it? Obviously, she must be having a party or a group of friends over. Or one of her fabulous arts and crafts gatherings. I’ll bet she is sitting in her perfect house right now laughing with friends and being all hospitable, and her hair probably looks good, too. Good grief, she has people over in the middle of the day? How is her house clean enough for that? And that china plate … she probably got it at a thrift shop. And where does all of her money come from anyway? She has nineteen kids, and she doesn’t even work! I guess she sits around baking and entertaining and thrifting … while I sit in my mess of a rented home, microwaving some sort of loser dinner for my family on paper plates because all of our real plates are chipped and sitting in the sink. And what about all those kids? They probably helped bake the darn thing! In fact, I’ll bet they picked the cherries that went into that pie as a family because this was some sort of homeschooling lesson, where they measured and counted and turned pie baking into an educational experience. They probably held hands and prayed over the ingredients. And why don’t I have a farm table? I think I need a farm table. Seriously. I think I would be so much happier if I just found the right farm table. I hate myself. I really do. I mean look at me. I’m wearing my 13-year-old’s leggings and my 11-year-old’s dirty sweatshirt. I look like a homeless woman. I really do. If I sat outside on the corner you would totally give me money. That’s how homeless I look right now. And what really gets me is, what woman can sit down and eat a pie on a Tuesday afternoon without hating herself? Right? I mean come on, it’s gotta be loaded with gluten. And sugar. So much sugar. But she’s so skinny! So unfair. She’s skinny eating pie with friends in her clean home while I sit at my messy desk in my homeless attire. You know how fat I would get if I did nothing but make pies and eat them? She probably doesn’t even eat it. She’s probably one of those women who invite other women to come over and eat, and she sits and watches. She wants everyone to be fatter than she is. Nice. Ugh. I really am a mess. Why can’t I just get myself together? The house is a mess, my desk is a mess, I am not even good at my job, and who knows what my kids are up to? I need help. Serious help. And I need a farm table. I really need a farm table. What’s wrong with me? I hate that stupid pie.

      Ah, the wonderful, encouraging world of social media! Isn’t it great?

      Only, the problem here really isn’t social media, is it? The problem here is me. How I view and compare myself to others. How I distort images and do some serious magical thinking, which is a therapist term for “making up a story and fully believing it.” Because other than the fact that this woman had a few minutes and the desire to photograph a pie, every other thought that ran through my head was most likely false. (Except for the thrifting. I stand by the thrifting, because honestly, I may not know her, but she thrifts too much.)

      But we do this, don’t we? We see an image and our minds create a story around it. We see, and we desire. And this is good. A great picture ought to tell a story; it ought to stir emotion. But there is a problem with this today. Because we are bombarded by images, and we have the hideous ability to see what everyone is doing, eating, drinking, wearing, vacationing, and enjoying, at every given moment of our every single day. And most of the images we see? Guess what? They are filtered. They are staged. They are untrue. They are the one perfect shot out of 500 others you did not see, and most likely never will.

      But it is hard to choose not to use filters, because they really do make us look so much better. The first time I used a filter on my face and saw the even, smooth skin and bright eyes, I was sold! And don’t even get me started on those animal filters my children use … because honestly, I am at my most beautiful ever when I look and sound like a deer. Who knew? Strange, but I gotta admit, so true. So much so, that I have already requested that when I die, if possible, I’d like to be laid out in the coffin looking exactly like that deer.

      Let’s just confess. We all love filters. And let’s just admit that if we like ourselves better as seen through an animal filter, well, sweet friend, there might be a problem.

      Because here is an interesting thing. You know what it means to filter? I do. Not because I am smart, but because I looked it up. To use a filter means to “remove what is unwanted.” When I read that, I was really struck by it, and not in a good way. Something about the word remove … something about the word unwanted. How many years of my life have I devoted to trying to remove those things about me that I do not want, those things about me that I think make me less attractive? Less desirable? Those things in my life that might point to the fact that I am kind of a hot mess and not the perfect woman I’d like you to think that I am? Too many years. From the nose job when I was just seventeen, to drastic weight loss in college, to the frantic house-cleaning maniac I turn into moments before company arrives. I have been on a nearly life-long quest of seeking out the illusion of perfection. Changing my image to fit whatever crowd I was currently in, transforming myself into the woman I thought a man would be attracted to. And let’s be honest, ladies, we not only like to be perfect for the men, but even more so for other women. Right? We are the most competitive species I know, and we love a good game of comparison — as long as we win. So, all of this filtering we do, it really isn’t about enhancing the beauty that is already there, is it? No. It is about removing the unwanted to give the illusion that everything is so much better than it actually is, because the way we are, as is, is not good enough.

      I think we do this because we want everyone to believe that we are better than just okay. I think we remove and sift and filter things out so that people cannot see what is really going on inside our homes, inside our families, inside our marriages, inside our hearts, inside our heads. I get it, not everyone needs to see the inside of your kitchen junk drawer, or what your linen closet looks like. And not everyone should be trusted with the truth of how weary you feel, how painfully lonely your marriage has been, how lost you fear your children might be, how you struggle to find meaning and purpose. But we do need to recognize that filters don’t work in real life and in real relationships, because filters don’t encourage the basic things we need to thrive, like truth, authenticity, and honesty.

      And we really need to acknowledge, at some point, that life is not perfect, we are not perfect, and that our pain is valid and real and okay and should be addressed, because sticking a deer’s ears and nose on it will not make it go away. It’s a temporary fix. It is not made to last. And I don’t know about you, but no matter how loud the world gets, or how much it tries to convince me that nothing lasts forever, and love is a feeling, and we can choose our gender and marry our dog (okay, so we can’t marry our dog … yet), I still disagree. I disagree because I want authentic, lasting relationships, and I want to choose to love because I desire the greatest good for others, not just myself, and because I want to live in the light of truth. But if I can’t be honest with myself, how will I ever learn to be honest with others? And if I can’t truly love myself, how can I truly love others? All these filters, all this work to appear lovely, all the botox and tummy tucks and nose jobs, only tear us away and apart from our true selves, from the truth СКАЧАТЬ