Just A Pretty Face
I always wondered what it was like.
To be pretty. To know you were pretty.
It’s no secret that I was an incredibly insecure girl growing up. And I’ve always wondered. I would look at the girls who were strutting around, with guys fawning over them and girls gushing over them. I would go shopping with them and they would find something they liked. Find something they knew they looked good in.
And I had to wonder. What did it feel like to know?
When I’d go shopping, I bought what didn’t make me want to skip the next seventy meals. Something I wasn’t embarrassed to step outside the dressing room and show my friend. The only way I truly knew if something looked okay was when it was confirmed by someone else. It wasn’t until I got the approval of someone else that I even CONSIDERED purchasing something.
I’ve grown more confident over the years. I now realize that I’m not actually hideously deformed, and it’s not possible that every single stranger who catcalls on the street is legally blind. And it turns out creepy guys at bars don’t literally hit on everyone.
I even have moments were I do feel pretty. I recently went shopping by myself [a rarity in itself] and bought an outfit that I not only didn’t even seek advice about before buying, but actually looked at myself in it and thought, “Wow. I look good in this.”
It was a first for me.
It still doesn’t stop me from wondering. I no longer hate the way I look. I’ve accepted that I’m average on the scale of deformed to stunning. In fact, I’m quite pleased to know that I’ve grown into my own looks and accepted myself, inside and out.
But I still wonder what it feels like.
I know most girls who strut around like their shit don’t stank are impossibly insecure and just have the exact opposite way of expressing it. But when you’re voted ‘most attractive’ or chosen for Maxim’s Hot 100? You have to know you’re gorgeous. Right?
I used to make myself feel better by saying that pretty girls never have to develop personalities. However, I know that to be a false statement. I know a good number of girls who are beautiful, smart, funny and genuinely good people. Which isn’t fair, if you ask me. But not the point. I wonder if they know how attractive they are.
Because, I mean, what if I am attractive and I just can’t see it because I’m with me all the time?
This is how my brain works sometimes. I know it doesn’t make sense.
I think I need to sort out more of what I’m trying to say/get at here and revisit it later.