Tell Me I'm Beautiful

I have always wanted to be beautiful.  I don't mean cute or occasionally well cleaned-up or looking pretty nice by association of the other lovely people who are also in the Facebook picture at that fancy wedding.  I mean, externally, luminously, superficially beautiful.  I have never been that girl.

I've always been smart, "nice" (worst word ever), kind, the girl you'd want in your group for class because you'd definitely get an A.  The girl you can ask, "Hey, how do you spell that again?" or "I'm in a tough space in life and I don't know what to do."  These are not undesirable characteristics, and universe, please know that I am grateful.  However, from age zero until age now, I've always looked intelligent (this is the universal code for nerdy), friendly, unassuming, non-offensive, practically invisible.  Glasses (usually not even cool ones), braces, boring hair -- average, or maybe worse: not even noticeable enough to be average.  Occasionally cute.  "Cute" might be worse than being invisible (although, a toss-up for worse than "nice").  It's kind of this patronizing way to be told you're adorable-in-a-child-or-furry-animal sort of way, and that you're putting up a good fight, but that you're not the real deal.  You're not glamorous or striking or sensual or a real woman.

Nobody ever called me pretty.  Not then, not now.  Instead, I was all the words that women have battled for, for centuries, begged to be called.  Seen not for what they seem but for what they are.  I understand that there are women ALL OVER the world, beautiful, captivating women, who fight, scream, advocate for their legitimacy in existence to be for what they think and what they do rather than for how they appear, or for how their lives are (poorly) valued in accordance with only what they look like.  They would sell body parts -- and do -- demanding education, a strong, heard voice, cerebral equality.  Listen.  I know this.  Reminding myself of it only makes me feel worse about posting this, which it should, you say.  I know.  But I have always guiltily wished, secretly pleaded, that someone would skip past my good vocabulary and literary references and just find me lovely.  Shallowly, plainly radiant.  This has never happened.  I know, you say, this is dumb, you say . . . what is wrong with you.  I don't know.  I know I'm lucky for people to find me fascinating once they open me up.  But I want them for once to not have to do the digging and the work; I want them to be able to be lazy and just look at me and find me beautiful.  The kind of low-level mental processing that doesn't require any cognitive effort, any mental scripts telling you that she's beautiful because she's triumphed an emotional battlefield or helps special needs kids or could write your college essays for you blindfolded.  What I am about to say is completely inappropriate and I don't care: I want to get in on the unjust luxury that women have enjoyed for all of time, to be admired just for being something people like looking at.

I guess it's false to say it never happens.  You know who calls me pretty?  Older people.  Not older people as in creepy old guys, thank God.  But older women -- 40s, 50s, 60s.  Aunts, female neighbors, friends' mothers.  They tell me I'm pretty in a quaint, grandmotherly sort of way.  And I do appreciate it, I do.  I kind of feel like they think everybody's pretty though, you know?  I kind of want someone to feel that, about me, and maybe NOT about everybody else, without having to think it.  And I also sometimes feel like it's easy for them to say those kinds of things, because they're not sitting here in flannel pajamas at midnight alone crying into a keyboard putting their gross hair into a ponytail and feeling like maybe if they'd washed it today, maybe they wouldn't be in this position.  (Which, clearly, I would never do.)

Who are you, you say, and what have you done with my feminist friend?  Accurate.  This is something that really does not often come out of my mouth.  And yes, I'm a little bit ashamed to be saying it.  But I think it, I feel it.  You know?  I can't help it.  Maybe it's only socialization that's convinced me this is missing.  Maybe it's just stripped humanity.  Don't wait for someone to tell you you're beautiful, you say . . . tell yourself.  Yes, okay.  That's delightful.  I will do that.  While I'm reminding myself how shitty I am to say something like this while women remain second-class global citizens and I sit here in all my first-world snotty privilege.  I know.  I get it.  Not cool.  This will not go down as one of my prouder blog posts.  (Although, nothing will top the wrath I incurred after the "Settling" entry, so, do not despair, fair audience, I doubt I'll be that hated again!)  I suppose the best move for me right now would be to go procure a mirror, a nice self-help book to read a chapter aloud from, and a cup of hot tea.  Instead, I'll probably resume my book on microlending to women in Africa, finish my glass of wine, and avoid all mirrors on my way back to my bed, due to the unconfirmed but aforementioned rat's nest ponytail and "nice" pajamas and "cute" bunny slippers . . . a beautiful picture.