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I haven’t watched the video yet, but having seen her on camera before, I know my reaction. First, I’ll start in on the wrinkles on her forehead and then move on to the bags under her eyes. “She looks stressed and tired!" Then I'll go after her hair. “It’s so flat … and those fly-aways!” Her voice will be next. “It’s so high in her throat. People can’t take her seriously when she sounds like a little girl!” I know I’ll be relentless and will get myself so worked up, I’ll eventually have to turn away from the image.

It happens every time.

The woman I’m trashing is me. I’ve been taped for a video piece that will appear on ShareWIK.com alongside my bio, introducing my column and me on -- you guessed it -- body image, self-esteem and self-acceptance.

At 46, with neither the time, money or the inclination to put “B-E-A-U-T-Y” at the top of my priority list, I’m afraid I will look like a real person on camera. No amount of HDTV, make-up or great lighting will hide that fact.

I remember how my family watched TV when I was a kid, openly criticizing everyone who came onto the screen: “He’s got weird hair.” “My gosh, she could stand to lose a few.” We’d never criticize people we actually knew, but people on TV were easy targets.

When it comes to media images we all have “Borderline Personality Disorder”- a pattern of either “Devaluation” or “Idealization” of others. “She is perfect and gorgeous, and I’m disgusting” or “She’s fatter than me, thank God!” We are like first graders establishing our place on the playground based on how fast everyone runs. “Am I the fastest, the slowest or somewhere in the middle?” Social comparison is a natural part of discovering our identity and determining where we fit.

Twenty years of sitting in the therapist’s chair has destroyed any fantasy I had that beauty and material success guarantee happiness. When my wealthy, gorgeous clients are teetering on a pedestal, there is nowhere to go but down. Stocks tank, bodies age, and in the end we all have to assess what really
matters.

The other night on TV, Stephen Colbert, the host of a satirical news show on Comedy Central, questioned author, Susie Orbach, in his faux-attack-dog manner about her book, “BODIES,” written all about our culture’s obsession with beauty.

“And what about you?” he hounded Orbach. “Just because you have a British accent, are you too good to worry about your appearance?” She seemed a little defensive: No, she did not obsess about her appearance and NO, she had not gone under the knife, unlike most of her middle-aged peers. I felt for her: if you are going to claim to be an expert in this arena, you’re going to have to get real.

And then there’s Susan Boyle, the gray-haired, bushy eye-browed 47-year-old who stunned the world with her angelic voice on “Britain’s Got Talent.” Totally unpretentious, surprisingly confident and about as real as they get, her performance had more of an impact on our collective judgments about beauty than a million books or blogs. For a fleeting moment, beauty was re-defined. She sang and became beautiful. We fell in love and saw the error of our superficial ways.

Unfortunately, most of us probably forgot the lesson by the time we clicked off YouTube and stood in front of our bathroom mirrors.

So, to honor Susan’s bravery, I will breathe. I promise to watch the video of myself with less critical and judgmental eyes. I will focus less on how that woman on screen looks and more on what she says, reminding myself that her words may offer something of value to some of her listeners and readers.

As I shift my perspective to this place of acceptance, please join me in seeing yourself through more forgiving eyes.

Remember Susan and just sing.

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