Though today I'm no Renoir, neither do I have trouble keeping my skirts up: It's a 51-year-old body I live in. I've finally matured. But my comparing mind has not. It's stubbornly stuck at 6, and if I were to follow its voice, I would feel once again like a tadpole among women. Though I'm full-grown, in my comparing mind I almost always come up short. So when it clamors to be heard, I listen as I would to a recalcitrant child, and then quiet it.
Here's what I mean: As I'm walking down a crowded city street, a gorgeous young creature in her thirties, sleek and glossy as a black cat, crosses my path. "Bad luck for you!" cries my comparing mind. "You'll never look like that again! You're old and invisible!" The woman and I are stopped at a curb. Her beauty imbues her with a mild haughtiness. In a regal kind of way, she turns her head in my direction. I catch her eye.
"You," I say, "are simply magnificent."
The haughtiness vanishes instantly. She's a bit taken aback, momentarily scrutinizes me for motive, sees none apparent, and then smiles her wide (magnificent) smile. "Why, thank you," she says.
"It's my pleasure to tell you," I say, and it is. Because I not only remember how happy I have felt as the recipient of an authentic compliment, but now I have enjoyed the additional gratification of being able to give one. Though my comparing mind wants to nullify my power and kick me off the playing field because I can no longer compete, the power I have today is irrevocable. After years of passively accepting a definition of beauty other than my own, of striving to be a noticeable object, I've now assumed an active role, too: Appreciator of All Things Beautiful.