A friend once said, "Felicia, you should be happy you've got two legs to walk on." I know that's true, but it's not so easy to digest. We've all been fed the same ideals. I've had a male companion tell me to my face, "You've got some ugly legs." I've been at a photo shoot where the stylist gave me two wardrobe options and my costars ten.
Over time some women learn to love their flaws. Not me. I still stare at my legs in the mirror and shake my head. But I've learned something just as valuable: Physical beauty isn't the most important thing—about me or to me. I have enough gorgeous friends to know that being pretty guarantees nothing—not confidence, not happiness, not love. I also know that a good man isn't necessarily good-looking. So these days, I concentrate on developing my best asset: my personality (my breasts are a close second). Men may woo-woo my curvaceous cousin on the street, but when we get to the restaurant, the energy gravitates to me. In the end, I may wish I had different calves and thighs, and no knock-knees. But I like who I am as a person. And because I believe that there's much more to me than my looks, other people believe it, too.