I am not Barbie

I do not want Ken, or a dream house, or three best friends each of a different ethnicity.

So why do I want to look like her?

I'm a real person. I have a soft stomach and jiggly thighs. I'm pale. Right now, I am the most tan I have virtually ever been.

I'm not currently being paid to be naked, so why do I still care about being perfect? When it was all about making money, my low self-esteem and perfectionist nature just seemed like good business sense. Now, it is, once again, another manifestation of my intensely low self-esteem.

I need to come to terms with myself. And not just physically.

It's hot...

It's hot... ungodly hot. I lay naked, stretched across damp sheets, tentatively reveling in the foreign-ness of it all. I roll and stretch, and the pools of sweat that formed in the hollow places of my hips and collar shift into running streams, flowing across my shoulders and haunches.
I rarely see myself fully nude. I hop from clothing to shower without more than a glance at the mirror. I stroke my wrist; its sad how foreign my own body has become. I notice now, the swells of my breasts and the stretchmarks faintly visible only when I lay down.
A stray hair clings to my chest, long and dark, and definitely not mine. My breath pushes it down, a lone tumbleweed on the open expanse of my torso. The soft slopes and hills I so despise while standing are now akin the to Midwestern plains I have only seen flashing by through train windows.
The hair rolls, peaks on my hip and tumbles off my thigh. Maybe I am beautiful.