Who, Me?

Kasey Chambers - Not Pretty Enough

We used to talk such shit about the pretty girls in high school – who didn’t?  I certainly wasn’t one of them.  Tall, awkward, with over-moussed hair and no fashion sense whatsoever.  My hair had no real color, just shades of brown and gold that was as drab as could be, and eyes that had no real color either, just a blueish, grayish bleh.  It was easy to understand why I was so far out of the circle, I was in an entirely different geometric region.

As an adult, I’ve learned to accept my mediocre appearance.  Still with no fashion sense, I don’t have a magical way with a comb and a cosmetic brush.  We all have our strengths, and looks simply aren’t mine.  I’ve had to gain the attention of the world (and men) the old-fashioned way… with my words.  At this point it’s the only weapon I have to distract from my battle scars that mar my skin as well as my spirit.

This is why I was so shocked to receive a random friend request on Facebook yesterday that left me feeling like the 80s were back and suddenly I was pretty in pink.  A man of similar age and the same high school sent me this request, very hot looking in a bad boy kind of way.  When I asked the usual “Hi, don’t recognize your name or photo – can you tell me how we know each other?”  the response was “May I know you, please?  I saw your picture and find you unbelievably sexy.”

Moan and grown all you want to, but the men reading this wish they had such game and the women wish you’d gotten that same response.  Tacky?  Yes.  Got my attention?  Absolutely.

Marital compliments aside (after the wedding’s taken place, they’re pretty much obligatory), when I’m sitting here looking down the barrel of a 40-gauge on my next birthday, this is sure to set every one of those candles ablaze.  

Strangers, men, see my photos online and tell me I’m too hard on myself – words I’ve heard are “rapturous,” “sultry,” “sexy.”  I equate all of this to “She has a great personality!”.  I’m simply realistic.  Anyone can get lucky with a photograph – the right lighting, having a good hair day, a rare smile that the camera didn’t hate.  Strip me naked and see how enamored you still are, mister.  My husband, I try very much to believe him – anyone else is shrugged off because I don’t dwell in fantasy, much as I’d love to be that spicy redhead they think they see. 

Most days I’m glad to not be one of the pretty girls.  My skin is already an uncomfortable fit, I’d shed it like a snake if I drew attention to myself based on my outer shell.  But when standing next to my petite, head-turning girlfriends, often I do feel like the Jolly Green Giant.  Everyone knows it’s Li’l Sprout that everyone fawns over. 

I’m going to take my unbelievably sexy ass to the bank with this compliment, sincere or not.  I’ll cash it, spend it like a sailor on shore leave, and not look in the mirror until tomorrow.

© Kymberlie Ingalls