Random Musings

But that's okay....

One thing that I really like about journaling is when I really let my thoughts ebb, flow, and cascade down onto the page and I allow myself to get down beneath the stuff that is happening on the surface, I discover things about myself. I have revelations, epiphanies even.

Journal entry:

You know, when I think about it, I realize that, at least that I can remember, nobody has ever referred to me as “pretty”. Isn’t that something? Ever.

But I think I have always known that I wasn’t a “pretty” girl. “Cute” is as close as I have ever been able to come, and as a very young girl, most of the time I didn’t even feel that. I was nothing special, I can remember feeling that.

As a teenager and a young woman, I developed a shapely body and equally shapely legs. I knew I had that much going for me. And I had a decent head of hair, which enhanced my appearance, but didn’t quite get me into that other rank. My mother had been a pretty girl in her youth, and she remained an attractive woman, but she had learned along that way that pretty only went so far. It didn't guarantee good jobs, an easy life, or happiness. In fact, it could be a problem if a girl wasn't smart about it. She must not have felt she did such a good job of that, because she rode me like a horse. No tight clothes or real short skirts to draw undue attention, do well in school, be polite, and treat people with respect.

Older and more secure in myself, I learned from my mother the value of good grooming and how to make the most of the positive attributes I possessed, including those that weren’t physical. But no matter what I did, even as I grew into a woman, I never made it to pretty.

In a way, though, I have to say that hasn’t been such a bad thing.
See, when you’ve never been overly focused on your face, you don’t get so bent out of shape about losing your looks as you get older. I do know some women I grew up with who have been pretty all of their lives, who have had that fact reinforced to them in one way or another, directly and indirectly, and who once nature began taking her course, got downright desperate to hold on to what had become their identity.

The year I turned 40, I had that party to celebrate, and Irma (my gorgeous friend) was appalled that I was advertising my age. I had nothing to hide and nothing of which to be ashamed. My life was full. I had my health, my marriage had endured, my three sons were growing into fine young men. My career was going well, I was well-educated, our house was comfortable, the fridge was full, and there was even a little money in the bank.

On the other hand, by that time, beautiful Irma had been married and divorced three times. She was on her fourth marriage, and it was a bit shaky.

In between the second and third marriage, she and I were talking about her scores of failed relationships (literally scores). She said that she had come to the realization that men were initially attracted to her for her looks, but once she and he got to know each other, things rarely worked out. By the time she was 35, she said she had slept with at least 40 different men.

It was like that for a lot of my very pretty friends; men, people in general were attracted to them for the superficial, but never took the time to know the real them. For some of the women, they didn’t seem to really know themselves either.

Even though we have known each other since high school, Irma is only really coming to that place now. Now that nature is removing the glossy upper layer.

As for me, I’m pretty okay in the skin I’m in these days. I can still make it to cute, even if I’m the only one who can see it.