Last weekend, while visiting my mother, we made the requisite trip to the local Dairy Queen. Yes, I was naughty and snarfed a brownie sundae, but that’s beside the point. While I was sitting there waiting for Grandma, who was taking my little girl to the restroom, I noticed some photos in the window, which caused me to reminisce about my own high school days.

I went to school in a small town with a population of about 2,000 people. Each year when prom rolls around, it’s a local tradition for the kids to get all dressed up and swing by the Dairy Queen, where they pose for photos. For the next month or two, those prom photos are displayed in the front window of the Dairy Queen, for all to see. As I looked at the current display, I admired all the girls’ dresses and hairdos, and wondered why I judged myself so harshly seven years ago when my picture was in that same window.

I’ve struggled with self-consciousness my whole life. In fourth grade, I remember writing "sorry about the bad picture" on the back of my wallet-size school photos before distributing them to friends. Throughout most of the eighth grade, I wore a bulky jacket even on hot days, to cover what I thought was a fat stomach. In high school, I used to stand in front of my mother’s full-length mirror, pinching my "thunder thighs" and sucking in my gut. I also had a bad habit of throwing my clothes around in a panicky last-minute rush before school, because nothing looked good on me, or so I thought.

When it came time for my senior prom, I found a beautiful, shiny red dress that I just had to have. It was gorgeous, but when prom day rolled around, I stressed like crazy because I didn’t think I looked good in it. I remember standing in front of that same full-length mirror, agonizing over the shape of my tummy under the satin fabric, wishing I’d been born with a different genetic makeup. In the end, I went to prom, but felt painfully self-conscious when I saw how glamorous (and thin) the other girls looked.

And when the photos showed up in the Dairy Queen window, I almost died of shame. When my boss mentioned that she’d seen it, my face burned red, and I felt compelled to mumble something about bad lighting. I couldn’t find even one thing to like about my prom photos: my date was dorky, my neck would have looked more appropriate on a giraffe, my arms looked like wet cheese, and my stomach stuck out like I was three months pregnant. If only I’d known then what I know now…

Looking back, I don’t think the photos are that bad. My breasts were much perkier then, having never breastfed a baby, and I feel sheepish when I remember how much I hated my pre-baby belly. If I could have that belly back now, I’d feel like a million dollars! And don’t even get me started about stretch marks!

As I sat in my hometown Dairy Queen last weekend, I found myself wondering what the girls in the current pictures think of the way they look, and what they will think seven years into the future. I hope they’re much kinder to themselves than I was back then. Somehow, I imagine that they’re not. Bad self-image is a curse that women have been dealing with for centuries.

I’m reminded of one of my favorite books: Open House by Elizabeth Berg (Random House/2000). In the story, a woman in her forties is watching a girl in her twenties, and wishing she could look like that again. At the same time, a woman in her sixties is watching her and wishing she could look like she did in her forties again. That scene really hit home with me, and whenever I feel like comparing my legs to Vienna sausages, or my stomach to wadded up tissue paper, I think twice, and try to remind myself of what I like about myself.

Today, I challenge you to stop obsessing about your looks. Instead, look at yourself as an impartial passerby might. Try to find the pleasing aspects of your figure, and be kind! Life is too short to feel so bad all the time!