Body Obsession and Acceptance

Recently, an old friend told me that, to paraphrase, she would gladly have the face of a toad if she could just have my legs. My skinny, scrawny legs are, to her, completely desirable because I don't have what she considers the bane of her existence: "fat knees, like Claudia Schiffer." According to her, she has fat knees, and, like the former supermodel, nothing she can do in the way of exercise or diet can change that basic shape, which dooms her to a life of leg loathing and long skirts.
Meanwhile, I use to dream of having her curves, particularly on top. My least favorite body part: my stomach. Even pre-baby, it was never flat. It always had a little extra cushioning. In college, when I actually, if occasionally, wore panty hose, I always made sure they were control top, and I've even owned a girdle in my life. Not pretty. As I got older, I grew more accepting of the fact that my stomach might never be super-flat, or, to put it more accurately, that I wasn't willing to exercise enough to make it so. So I tossed the restrictive lingerie, did the little exercise I could get away with, and just learned to live with it. There's also a problem with my butt, or lack thereof. From the back, it doesn't look so bad, but from the side, it is virtually nonexistent. I have often dreamed of having a round, perky, Kylie-Minogue-ish rear end.
Recently, when a friend told me that I looked great for losing my baby weight, I joked: "Thanks. I think I look great, too - just like a 12 year old boy!" While speaking to an old friend on the phone the other day, a friend who is as petite as I am, she also mentioned that she considers herself to have a "boyish" figure. It seems none of us is ever satisfied with what we have.
What I told my fat-knee-obsessed friend, and remind myself of constantly, is this: At some point, and I think we are there, we need to accept the fact that we are never going to be supermodels or screen sirens or pop stars. We are 30-something mommies with flawed bodies, but husbands and kids who love us just the way we are. We don't have to look like a Victoria's Secret model (and they don't even look like that, anyway). So maybe it is time to let go of the constant quest to examine and obsess over our bodies, and learn to just accept them, flaws and all. Maybe we will never have washboard abs or scrawny knees, and maybe, just maybe, we can be okay with that.