How Do You Really Look in That Dress?

With Prom approaching, the hunt for that perfect dress can be stressful. Can you rely on your parents or your friends to give you an HONEST opinion about how you look in the prom dress you want to purchase?

My Looks Online takes the sting out of the question, "How do I look," because My Looks Online will provide an honest critique from people not invested in your emotional response.

We do not tolerate abusive comments, nor do we accept pornographic photos, but you can be assured that you will receive honest feedback about your photo.

All you have to do is send your photo to us at mylooksonline@gmail.com, give us a little information about the occasion and tell us specifically what you want to know – for instance, Does this dress flatter me? or – Do my hips look too wide? We will Facebook and Twitter the blog that holds your photos and request comments from our readers.

So for a simple, honest, and direct response to your question, send your photo to mylooksonline@gmail.com and get honest opinions about your question.

We are also accepting photos from people who want help in the following categories: General Looks; Hairstyles; Makeup; Body Shape & Weight; Fashion, Clothes & Accessories; Skin & Complexion; Facial Features; and Piercings & Tattoos.

My Looks Online provides unbiased, honest, constructive, and free feedback about your looks.

Lessons from the Bus - Part Two

In my most recent blog, I mentioned that, during my years as a young working adult in downtown Chicago, I learned some precious lessons on my bus rides to and from the city. These were lessons powerful enough to remain with me for the next 40 years. What follows is another such lesson.

In some respects, I can’t really call this one a lesson. It more closely resembles a religious experience, or even an “out-of-body” experience. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered and, until recently, it has never been repeated.

In my early twenties, I had what some might call a borderline nervous breakdown. Following some serious family trauma that I smugly thought I had coped with as best as anyone could, I found myself suffering from panic attacks. They would strike at random and occur in places where I had previously been comfortable. Particularly troublesome were cafeterias and restaurants, though even shopping malls created their own special challenges.

While dining out, my hands would shake uncontrollably - so much so that it was doubtful the fork would reach my mouth without losing half of its contents. Soup was completely out of the question. I began eating only sandwiches, and even those had to be negotiated with as little use of my hands as possible. Someone watching me might have suspected I was bobbing for apples. All told, each dining experience served as reinforcement that the next one will be worse. And, it always was.

At the mall, signing my name on a receipt was an anticipated horror. I fully expected my heart to race, my knees to buckle and to perspire as if I had just completed a marathon. Thinking I found a way around the impending crisis, I tried paying cash in lieu of a credit card. However, I soon discovered that the alternative offered little relief as my arms and hands shook while presenting the cash.

In a nutshell, I was afraid of everything and everyone. I was afraid to eat in public, to sign my name in public, and to be seen by the public. Beneath that fear was the bigger, deeper, more intense fear that others would see me tremble. Thus began an avoidance pattern that, had it been left uninterrupted, would surely have led to full-blown agoraphobia.

The panic attacks lasted for a couple of years. Looking back, I had no choice but to plow through each day in order to earn a living. I did not have the luxury of falling victim to my self-imposed neurosis. In that regard, there’s a lot to be said for forcing yourself to do the things that terrify you – desensitization, I believe they call it. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but she’s also the godmother of grit.

However, there is one single event that I attribute to my cure. I knew that my panic attacks were fear-driven, and while I couldn’t understand the drivers, I recognized the power and control it had over me. One evening, as I sat and trembled on the bus for my 50-minute commute home, I asked myself, as I had countless times before, why I was so afraid. As usual, that answer was not forthcoming. However, another answer slowly crept over me.

From my seat at the back of the bus, where I typically sought shelter, I began to look at the back of each passenger. One at a time, I studied his broad shoulders, her wool hat, her auburn hair, his stooped posture and her animated gestures that flashed with poppy-red nail polish. I moved from one side of the bus to the other, not missing a single passenger. As I studied, I was overcome with the realization that each of these people had lives, stories, sorrows, joys and, essentially, were probably very much like me. It wasn’t just a feeling of being “overcome” with emotion. I was blown away by it. It took my breath away. For the first time in a long time, I was no longer alone; I was a part of them.

I began to feel a genuine affection, if not even love, for each and every one of my fellow passengers. It was all I could do to stop from getting out of my seat and reaching over to any one of them with a smile and a touch. I couldn’t see their faces, but somehow I was connecting with them on a spiritual level. Having never been a “spiritual person,” this was a marvel to me. And, as my mind wound around them, my body relaxed. On that day, love trumped fear so magnificently.

This “lesson” came to mind just recently as I finished reading Wm. Paul Young’s The Shack. Again, I’m not a spiritual person (though I would like to be), nor a religious person, and even confess to tortuous questions about God and our purpose in life. However, there are occasions - I’ll call them gifts - when a mystical presence enters your heart and it is felt so vividly that it alters your physical and mental behavior. I experienced my second lifetime magical moment after reading The Shack.

I have always been terrified of wasps and, in line with my annoying avoidance characteristics, would allow this fear to outweigh the joys of being outside during the summer. The day after reading The Shack, I forced myself to do some needed yard-work. As I weeded and trimmed, it occurred to me that my fear was far less intense that day. I immediately knew why. The warmth that I was feeling went far beyond the sun on my face and arms; it was an internal heat. It was a tenderness that soothed and occupied every inch of my heart. There was simply no room for fear; it was already crammed with a plump African-American woman, a not too-good looking carpenter and a gossamer butterfly lady.

It can take years for it to happen again, but one magical moment can lead to another.


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Lessons from the Bus

Several of my more profound learning experiences occurred during my daily 50-minute commute when I was beginning my new adult life as a downtown Chicago working woman in the early 1970’s.

I had my own apartment but didn’t have a car and therefore walked each morning from Memorial Drive to Torrance Avenue in Calumet City, IL, roughly a mile and a half walk, to catch the bus. It was rarely a perfect day for the trek – the weather was always either too cold or too hot, too windy or too muggy. And, at that time, women never conceded to comfort. No matter the weather conditions and no matter how long the walk, we wore our skirts and high-heeled pumps.

On one particularly steamy summer morning, wearing my orange floral skirt with its matching organza top and sash, along with my burnt orange high-heels, I stepped onto the bus and took up residence in my usual place on the hard bench behind the driver. It was sweltering that day and the bus was about to get crowded, but at least the windows on the bus were open, producing a much-welcomed modest breeze.

At the next stop a family boarded the bus, a very heavy-set mother and her two somewhat fragile-looking children, a boy and a girl. They sat down on the bench opposite me. The mother wore a frayed, brown, thick wool coat and carried two large brown paper bags stuffed to the brim with food, clothing and miscellaneous articles – an umbrella, an old radio, empty tissue boxes, socks, a half-eaten box of doughnuts, and an empty box of what had been Oreo cookies. It looked as if they had packed all of their belongings, including the morning’s trash, into these two paper bags. As soon as they sat down, the mother began ordering her children to perform various rituals.

At first, it seemed innocent enough. “Take your sweaters off; put them here,” she instructed while pointing to the bags. Well, it was a hot day and that made sense to me. However, it soon became clear that something was very wrong. I tried not to stare, and noticed other passengers making the same attempt, but the mother was loud and barked orders every few minutes. “What’s wrong with you? Put your sweater on.” “Eat these doughnuts.” “Stand by that window.” “Put the cookies at the bottom.” “Cross your legs.” “Move over there.” “Get up; stand in front of that orange lady.” “Kneel down.” “Put your hands together.” “Pray.” “Put your jacket over your head.” The demands were relentless and pointless.

With each order, the children obeyed. The little girl, probably no more than 8 years old and weighing no more than 40 lbs., silently cried as she stood in front of me, the orange lady, and slowly placed a royal blue jacket on top of her head as if she were donning her First Holy Communion veil. The boy, appearing close in age to his sister and of equal weight, remained seated as he complied with each unreasonable command to cross and uncross his legs. He picked at a doughnut he clearly did not want to eat and, as crumbs fell on the bench, he tried to swipe them away while being tasked with the additional chore of removing the cookie box from the center of one bag and placing it at the bottom of the other bag. When the doughnut crumbs landed on the bus floorboards, it provoked an onslaught of hard slaps and curses from the mother.

At one point, when the children were not wearing their sweaters, the mother required them to stand in the middle of the aisle and exchange shirts. He reluctantly but obediently removed his and gave it to his sister. She shyly removed her’s and gave it to him. They never appeared to question the requirements, never puzzled over the logic. They simply exchanged the clothing while keeping tearful eyes glued to the floor. I prayed that this would be the end of it, and that there would be no requirement for an exchange of pants.

This was during a time when people rarely took a stand when witnessing child abuse. This was during a time, in fact, when we often did not recognize child abuse. Moreover, this was also during a time when we did not easily recognize mental health problems. I provided myself with a convenient rationalization that any outside interference could result in additional harm to the children.

I tried to catch the childrens’ eyes. I wanted desperately to convey to them, in a subtle, almost telepathic way, that “It’s o.k. We understand. Please please don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed. We are with you and you will be all right.” But only once did I connect with the little girl. Her large, brown pleading eyes seemed to be asking, not for our understanding, but for our forgiveness. Forgiveness for the spectacle of her family. I’d like to think that she heard me, that she read my laser-like penetrating message, but I can’t be sure. It was just for a split-second, and then she was directed to parade mid-way down the aisle with her blue Communion veil so that she could stand by a specific window. “Not THAT one; the other one!”

Many stops later, they departed the bus for destinations unknown. It was a large, ceremonious exit, with the mother firmly regulating the organization and order of the departure. While walking towards the exit, there was another exchange of shirts, followed by orders to put the sweaters back on, and finally, a demand that they finish the doughnuts.

I had known compassion prior to that experience. As a young girl, I had felt it for a neighborhood child who had no friends, a neighborhood cat that had just given birth, and even a grasshopper caught by my sisters and myself, which according to my concerned mother, required that we place in a jar with punched holes so that Cinterkath (our name for our new pet) could breathe. But I had never known compassion so deeply, painfully and indelibly until that day. To this day, those children remain in my heart and prayers.

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Finding Value at the Bottom of the Barrel

Leave it to me to introduce a website that attempts to help people get opinions about their looks at the same time that the world is facing a catastrophic economic mess, when the health care of the nation is at risk, and when hearts are breaking all over the world for the Haitian and Chilean people. Talk about bad timing. A website about “our looks” seems pretty superficial against that backdrop.

Yet, that’s what I did. I created and am trying to promote MyLooksOnline.com. It’s a service that offers honest opinions about people’s looks. There’s a huge part of me that is ashamed of the time I’m spending on this venture when my time could be so much better spent on more humanitarian efforts.

How do we value worthwhile pursuits? Or, perhaps the more pertinent question is “how do we rationalize all of our pursuits?” I’m tempted to suggest that providing people with the opportunity to receive opinions about their appearance rests at the bottom of the barrel. In fact, the barrel might look like this:

1. Charitable causes
2. Educational pursuits
3. Health-related work
4. Environmental-related work
5. Spiritual assistance
6. The remaining 120 billion work-related business and services, excluding Entertainment
7. Entertainment
8. Offering opportunity for people to seek opinions about their looks

Yet, when I began development of the site, I had relatively noble ambitions. I argued that looks are important and that people deserve the opportunity to find out how they could improve their looks. After all, not all of us are going to win a guest spot on What Not to Wear. I further argued that those who didn’t look as good as they could, would be somewhat disadvantaged in our looks-are-everything culture. It seemed a lofty enough goal. Not exactly the American Red Cross, but not gossip column either.

It’s not until I put the site in context with the economy, Haiti, Chile, and overall world hunger and poverty that it smacks of trivia. Granted, not everything we humans do can be reduced to the same standard of valuation, but isn’t it safe to say that some occupations and services are more contributory than others?

So…we do what we can. In a somewhat self-serving way, we try to remove the “ficial” from the superficial by finding avenues where value and meaning can be created. It allows us to feel good about what we’re doing. At My Looks Online, our focus is on looks. And, in a much more precious way, so is it with the Smile Train organization. This is where doctors repair the smiles of children. It’s why My Looks Online plans to donate 10% of income generated from the site to this organization. Bottom line – It elevates our bottom-of-the-barrel position and contributes a beautiful smile to the world. I like that.

The Other Dimension of Beauty

I have a dear friend, Cindy, whose mother is blind. She gradually lost her eyesight over the years until reaching her 80’s when she became completely blind. Recently, her family made the heart-breaking decision to arrange for her to live in a retirement/assisted living community where she could receive the 24/7 care that she needed. Years earlier, she had lost her dearest friend, her husband, to pancreatic cancer.

As a child, I spent almost as much time in Cindy’s home as I did in my own. In Dolton, Illinois, Cindy and I danced the Boogaloo and played Hang-the-Butcher in their basement. We played Hopscotch and Double-Dutch in their driveway. We played Bunco and Careers at their kitchen table. I spent many a night over there and joined plenty of dinners there.

As teenagers, Cindy and I spent hours talking about boys, experimenting with our hair, makeup and jewelry while sitting in front of the bedroom mirror. When we broke away to the kitchen to get a “soda” (my family called it “pop”), we frequently caught Cindy’s parents sitting quietly in the living room watching t.v., all the while holding hands. I knew Cindy’s family and her home as well as I knew my own.

After 50+ years, I’m still good friends with Cindy and keep in touch with her Mom. In a recent conversation with her Mom, I learned that she was adjusting well to her new surroundings. She delighted in telling me that she has constant companionship, is learning to navigate, is enjoying good food, and has made many new friends. Most important, she continues to be grateful for the love and daily visits from her family. She was beaming as she was bringing me up to date.

It occurred to me that if there was one thing I wanted Cindy’s Mom to be able to see, it would be her own smile. More so than seeing her new great-granddaughter and more so than seeing the faces of her children, I want her to see her own smile. It’s radiant and, no doubt, would cause her to smile all the more. I’m sure she has no idea what beauty she is always projecting.

It also got me thinking about beauty and what may be an additional, overlooked dimension to it. It’s that rare kind of beauty that straddles both inner and outer. It’s a beauty expressed by the soul at the same time that it is being presented in a handsome Hollywood frame. That’s what Cindy’s Mom has. It’s what she’s always had. It’s what I observed as a child when she held her husband’s hand. When you see her smile, you see not only a pretty face, you see her soul and her genuine joie de vivre.

My own mother has this form of beauty and she’s just as blind to it as Cindy’s Mom. My Mom’s laugh is one that is a cross between a child’s giggle and my favorite song. It is, in every sense of the word, music to my ears. I’m fortunate that I get to hear this sparkling laughter often because there are so many things that strike my mother as being funny. It doesn’t matter if it’s a joke at her own expense, a quip in Reader’s Digest, or a tale of her great grandchildren’s adventures, she simply loves to laugh.

And, simply stated, this form of beauty is so special because it’s a beauty that returns beauty. You are rewarded for being exposed to it.

When visitors to my website, MyLooksOnline.com, offer honest opinions to those who have asked questions about their looks, they will, without knowing it, be responding to more than just the photo and the frame.

Looks Like Our Looks Need Some Perspective

Looks are important and no t.v. program presents the extreme end of the “Looks spectrum” so well as does the Discovery Health Channel. This is where, from the comfort of your couch, you can voyeuristically watch the obese, disfigured and diseased wrestle with their heartbreaking challenges.

I am addicted to these programs. My husband refers to them as the modern-day freak shows. Instead of going to the Springfield State Fair to see the fattest man alive, we can now cuddle up in our snuggies while eating corn-dogs, and witness the fattest man alive struggle as he attempts to get out of bed. Sure beats paying 50 cents to walk inside his tent and have a one-on-one with him, right?

Maybe the attraction is similar to that of Gaper’s block. In a ghoulish sort of way, I need, not just want, to see the tragedy while, at the same time, I’m silently praying “There but for the grace of God. . .“ Yet, maybe it’s more than just that. Seeing the “worse off” reinforces perspective. And, seeing the extremely worse off should indelibly fortify it. We can turn off the t.v. and sigh, “Well, I may be overweight, but at least I’m not 800 lbs.” It’s why t.v. shows like the Biggest Loser, and What Not to Wear are so wildly popular. We can feel good about ourselves just by comparison. The icing on the cake is when we see those ugly ducklings turn into beautiful swans. It means there’s hope for us, too!

Like many, I’m in constant need of perspective reinforcement. Wallowing in self-pity is a game I play quite well when the mood strikes. A member of the family sick? Woe is me. Lose my job? Woe is me. Getting old? More woe. Not enough money? Oh God, let’s bring on that bucket of woe. Seems there’s always an abundant supply of it.

Until I watch one of those programs. I see a child who was born without a face. I see a mother struggling with her daughter’s severe deformity. I see a man so ravaged by fibrous tumors that his face is no longer recognizable. I see his desperate family trying to help him. How much more perspective does it take? How much more tragedy do we have to second-handedly experience before we grasp the truer, deeper meaning of despair?

Oddly enough, it always takes more. You can never get enough perspective. While I’m watching the programs and feeling heartsick for the children and parents, I know that tomorrow I’ll be helping myself to another heeping bowl of woe-is-me soup.

Funny thing about perspective – it’s so temporary. Unless you’re glued to the t.v., watching one of these programs 24/7, you lose it. You return to focusing on your own perceived injustices just as easily as you turned off the remote control. Maybe you would like a better job; maybe you would like a prettier face; maybe you would like more friends and more financial security. Or, maybe the “mores” are better expressed in terms of “less” anxiety, stress, guilt, weight and wrinkles.

With the exception of a desire for good health & well-being of friends and family, I realize, whenever I’m watching one of these programs, that there isn’t a single desire I have that could possibly compare to a mother’s desire for her disfigured child to fit in, or at least not be ridiculed, or at best to be cured.

That’s perspective and I need to be reminded of it often. Thank you, Discovery Health Channel.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Not too long ago, my mother and I had a conversation during which we asked each other “Given the choice of being judged by the world as beautiful or being judged by yourself alone as beautiful, what would you choose?” It was an “either/or” question; you couldn’t have both. And, it was not a question about so-called inner beauty. It was directed solely towards that superficial, only-skin-deep, Vogue Magazine kind of beauty.

For my mother and me, it was a no-brainer. We chose being seen as beautiful in the eyes of the world. We decided we would love to wake up one day and suddenly be declared stunning. Strong jaw-line. Chiseled nose. Almond-shaped eyes. Flawless complexion. Shiny, healthy hair. And, a body to beat the band. All in all, a cross between Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor, and Christie Brinkley.

So, what does that say about us?

Foremost, it suggests that each of us really needs to get a life and move on from these inane conversations, but beyond that, it also offers a couple of mildly interesting, if not futile questions and observations:

Are our own self-images so fragile and dismissive that it matters not what we think, only what the world thinks? Could be. Majority rules, right? After all, we frequently defer to public opinion, especially in matters where we have minimal hands-on knowledge. When we were told that Iraq had WMD, who were we to argue? When we were told that the climate is changing, we nodded in agreement. Likewise, if the world were to pronounce us beautiful, I think we’d eventually acquiesce, despite our own misgivings.

Therein, however, lies the dilemma. This little exercise in futility doesn’t allow for acceptance of our own beauty at the same time that the world proclaims it. Remember - It’s either/or. Having made our choice, the world now sees us as gorgeous and we are no longer afforded the indulgence of conceit. Sort of a Catch 22, right? You get your wish, the world thinks you’re beautiful, but you’re left with the same old ugly self-image. In other words, nothing has changed.

Conversely, you think you’re beautiful, but no one else does, and you’re left with this bogus self-image, which while personally satisfying, counts you among the American Idol-wannabe’s who can’t sing but think they can and are ultimately destroyed when the truth is revealed.

Yet, in some respects, everything changes if we get our wish. Despite our own reservations, everywhere we go, people react to us as beautiful women. Life is a little easier. People automatically like us and people are automatically attracted to us. Because we continue to view ourselves as two hideous lepers, we also project this wonderfully innocent humility that endears us to everyone even more. We are popular; we are desirable; we are loved.


Ugly people, and even the average, on the other hand, have to work harder at being loved. We have to first guide the public to look beyond the flaws. We have to have talent, skill, or some other nuisance thing of redeeming value. Second, we have to attempt to disguise the flaws. Lots of money and makeup would be required. And, third, we have to present winning personalities that outweigh the flaws. That takes some doing. Let’s face it, by the time we’re done, we’re too tired to achieve success.

Of course, the alternative, where you’re the only one in the world who thinks you’re beautiful, also holds promise. Filled with conceit, albeit undeserved, you don’t have to work as hard as the ugly and the average. The mirror says you’re the fairest of them all. You can relax; people will naturally flock to you. There’s no work in hiding invisible flaws; there’s no work in overcoming them. It doesn’t matter that people may not be flocking to you because you can always point to a host of reasons for the flock failure, none of which have anything to do with your looks. Self-denial in this respect is its own reward. And, any doubt is instantly removed with that magic mirror.

So, there it is in a nutshell. We made our choice because, unwittingly, we chose an easier way to be considered desirable and gain love. That’s what it said about us.

Next time my mother and I have a philosophical conversation, we should begin with “First, let’s get a life; then we’ll talk.”