Am I not pretty enough, is my heart too broken? Do I cry too much, am I too outspoken? Don’t I make you laugh? Should I try it harder? Why do you see right through me…?
I know I’m not pretty, but am okay with that. I’m a whole lot of things, that just ain’t one of ‘em. Strangely enough, I get ‘cute’ a lot – but cute in my mind is reserved for puppy dogs and cheerleaders, not dark souls like myself.
It’s said that when a woman reaches a certain age, her beauty flourishes because she has become more confident in herself, something that only comes with miles. I’ve definitely done the drive, but all that stares back at me in the rearview mirror are darker eyes and a tired soul.
More Wicked Witch than ‘pretty’ little Dorothy.
Last week I told my husband my eyes baffled me. They’re not my mom’s, not my dad’s. Someone said a man could fall into them and never find his way out. Truth be told, I get that a lot. It’s a good way to tell when someone is lying to me, because I don't do eye contact – so how would they know? If our eyes are the windows to what’s inside, I’d rather keep the curtains closed.
Used to be I had great legs. Long, and lean. They’re still lengthy, but like my waist have grown in size. My last mini-skirt went out with my 20s and men no longer fantasize about climbing to the golden Himalayas .
Ironically, in my big weight loss a few years ago, my chest was first to shrink. No good deed goes unpunished.
Over the years, I’ve asked men what about me attracts them? The answers have been varied – “sexy,” “sultry,” “there’s a craziness in you.” Even “vulnerability” has been tossed about. Then they throw in the eyes, or the legs or the neurotic mind. Okay, but those are all just pieces. Even a pit bull still has the heart of a dog.
Lately I seem to be obsessed with the changing of my Facebook profile photo. It’s as if I up the odds with quantity, eventually quality’s going to follow. I’ll pose and click and post, putting my needful vanity on display, yet the same face glares back at me; if you can’t be pretty on the inside, you’re wasting your time.
There it is. I can prop up the old girls for an impressive display of cleavage, show off my pretty little painted toenails, try everything to turn my lumps and bumps into curves and contours, but at the end of the day it’s all about the innards, isn’t it?
Finally, I went to the ultimate judge: “Honey, when we first met, I was not like the other women you were dating. Why did you want to see me again? What was it you saw that first night?”
The pause only served to show his sincerity: “You were real.”
© Kymberlie Ingalls, May 2, 2012
Lyrics: Not Pretty Enough / Kasey Chambers
