I am obsessed with my looks. There, I said it.

Not the type of obsessed that I can’t pass a mirror or other reflective surface without checking myself out. I’m not arrogant in that I think I’m so beautiful that I simply must have another look at myself. I don’t take selfies anywhere and everywhere and scatter them throughout various outlets of social media. I don’t make selfie books for my husband, Kim Kardashian-style. But I’m obsessed with certain aspects of my appearance.

I don’t quite know how or when this “obsession” started, but I suspect it had something at least in part to do with an unkind boyfriend I had my freshman year of college. Though I was 5’ 7” and maybe 110 pounds on a water-retention kind of day, he made the remark at some point that I could “stand to lose a little weight.” For someone who’d endured some hurtful comments about my looks (something about me not being as pretty as other girls) early in my youth, I had already suffered a few dings to my self-esteem, so this jab about my weight was particularly stabbing and I took it straight to the heart.