If I functioned purely on a rational, scientific basis I would undoubtedly choose the path of least resistance. I would love myself because it's a lot easier to be in love with something than it is to hate it. Or is it?

Click through channels of mindless television and inevitably you will come across a shiny woman blathering on about the key to losing weight is to love yourself. Whatever.

In most other cultures, gray hair is a coveted feature. The elderly are to be respected; children know nothing. You would not believe how I am treated every Saturday when I am tutoring Burmese refugees. The children constantly bring me cups of tea and plates of ice cream; they always give up their seat so I can sit down. It's a bit strange for me since American children are treated like precious gifts that are not to be upset. I never see their mother fretting over gray hairs or laugh lines; she's too busy earning money so her children can afford to eat.

Here, old people are viewed with contempt and disgust. They are to be locked away in nursing homes, we are to talk about them like they're not even in the room. The elderly are not sources of wisdom and pride; their withered hands, white hair and slumping figures are to be avoided at any and all costs. Each birthday approaches that one birthday when it officially becomes inappropriate to ask how old that person is turning.

I have very curly hair and many people have asked why don't I straighten it, or have I ever thought of getting it permanently straightened, or I bet your hair would look so nice if you straightened it! It was almost as though I was breaking some sort of follicle law--thou shalt not have curly hair. For the record, I did go on a flat iron fix when I was fifteen. My hair took two hours to straighten and always smelled like burnt toast; I decided that it was not a good look for me. Eventually I just got over it. Every now and then I wish I had straight hair to avoid the tangles and frizz associated with curls, but many days I'm glad I look different. Yet I'm still never happy. There is no rest for the weary when it comes to being self-conscious. On just about every Web site I visit, a banner ad touting a revolutionary new diet pill pops up, showing before and after photos that were undoubtedly doctored. Everyone knows those diet pills don't work. So why do they still bother me?

Plastic surgery is now the norm, not the exception. "Can't she afford to remove those wrinkles?" we all ask of an aging star. Slicing one's chest open and inserting a silicone sac is a beautiful thing. Injecting a neurotoxin (Do you think the name Botox is a coincidence?) into one's face is a neat and tidy procedure which can be completed during lunch hour. The country is going through an obesity epidemic, we're told. Yet restaurant portions are unsightly, food is pumped with more chemicals than ever and someone's always having a dinner party. We live in a paradoxical society which praises us for partying all night and tanning all day, then condemns the puffy eyes, wrinkles and saddlebags that come as a result. Oh well. It's time to go eat a cookie and then hate myself for the rest of the day.