I imagine, unless you're a monk (and even then...) it's almost impossible for us to accept ourselves as we are. Or, even if we could accept ourselves, then to like ourselves. I wonder if it was always like this. I wonder if my grandmother ever sat, frowning, in front of her mirror? I wonder if she was constantly comparing herself to others, worrying about how much she did (or didn't) eat, how much she did (or didn't) move. And I wonder if we've always, always been this exhausted?