I Fear Ugly

I have Stockholm Syndrome and my captor is 90s and 00s beauty standards

The Ugly

Twice in my life that I can think of, I became “unpretty.” Not dawg-ugly to where you’d look at me and gag or anything—just kind of blah (I believe they call it “mid” these days). You wouldn’t notice me. Or you would, and you’d think I was annoying, because, why is that girl still talking loud and making a spectacle of herself when she is clearly imperfect? At least that’s how it felt when my prefrontal cortex was still forming, and I was being bombarded with images of skinny, big-boob, smooth-haired girls. I did a pretty good knockoff impression of this when I needed to, but there were two periods during which I couldn’t even fake it, and I experienced withdrawal symptoms without my pretty privilege.

5th Grade school picture. ‘Nuff said.

Once was when I was in fifth grade (around ‘95), my teeth were too big for my mouth, my hair was a fuzz-helmet replete with a roll of bangs flowering on my forehead, and…well, that was it; nothing too bad. I was just that age. The girls who had been my sleepover pals in elementary school suddenly treated me like a leper. (Who knows if it had to do with my looks or just how dang awkward I was in every other way.) For a couple years, life was pain. I remember my mom suffering for me, stunned at how mean they could be. Luckily I learned how to use hair products and straighteners, got contacts and grew into my features, and subscribed to trendy magazines so I could fully reinvent myself as a 7th grader. They were no longer mean to me, but at this point, I did not deign to hang out with them, for I was desired by many, and remained so until I was a freshman in college.

The dining hall had an ice cream machine and an array of rotating carbs that I was excited to sample every day, and I lived next to a girl who kept a bookshelf stocked with Oreos and Doritos that we ate into the night while watching Joe Millionaire. I put on nearly 40 lbs. without even realizing it. FORTY. There were clues that I wasn’t conventionally “hot” in the 00’s sense anymore. I was, at last, single and ready to mingle, but, for the first time in my young adult life, the prospects were-a-dwindling and none of the boys I fancied seemed as keen as I did. Also, my clothes didn’t fit anymore, but I could still do some mean hair and makeup, and I’d look in the mirror with that pouty face, contorting my body in such a way that I could convince myself it was just a little extra weight—not that noticeable.

Me, circa 2003. Oh wait—no, it’s Titian’s “Venus with a Mirror.”

However, the cold, hard truth hit me in February, when I got the glossy 3x5 photos back from a few Kodak Funsaver disposable cameras my girls and I had used up during fall and winter terms to commemorate our costume parties, concerts, and random beach trips. Who, pray tell, was this Venusian blonde in these photos with no visible clavicle? She was thicc, buddy, before thicc was desirable. I mean, it was distributed well, but it became clear to me at that moment why the Italian frat boy had suddenly stopped inviting me to his room, and why I had been passed over for a lead in the latest stage production, even though I had starred in the fall play to local newspaper acclaim! In 2003 parlance, at a time when the gorgeous Martine McCutcheon was called chubby in Love Actually, I, too, had “thighs as big as tree trunks.” My face had widened and filled out, my shoulders were linebacker meaty (for I still went hard at the gym), and, in a world where we subjected ourselves to a website called Hot or Not, submitting a photo of yourself for strangers to rate your “hotness” on a 1-10 scale, I had gone from an 8.5 to—well, I’d have hated to find out.

I didn’t see how strong I was, or recognize that I still had valuable talent, because nobody else valued it unless I had the looks to go with it. My academic advisor even called me into his office to tell me that I needed to start watching my figure. I bled out, confidence-wise, and began to mirror back what the external was showing me. I became embarrassed about how brazen I’d been for the past few months, when I was still dressing up in little themed outfits like I was something sexy to behold, dancing on tables at frat parties. I began to cover up more, and remember to walk into a room like I was apologizing. I was stuck like that until the summer, when I went back home, away from the Bacardi and Ben & Jerry’s, and I ran every day, miles and miles over the foothills until I could be considered acceptable again.

Don’t Judge Me! I’m Already Judging Myself!

When I was “hot” again, I took it for granted, just as I had before. I didn’t realize, until friends told me, that not everyone received freebies here and there just because the waiter or the clerk liked their smile. It was easy to go up to anyone and start a conversation without hesitation. And my confidence during those times allowed me to experiment with ridiculous fashion, hair, and makeup, never really worrying about detracting from my appeal. The confidence allowed me to express myself in a fun way, and actually stop thinking about my presentation—which is, for me, the ideal.

On the other hand, there are certain environments where playing up attractiveness has worked against me and made me more self-conscious. If I do dress playfully and emphasize my best attributes, there are plenty who assume I’m a shallow human without life experience or a working brain, and I feel like I have to work a lot harder to be taken seriously. This is especially true as I age, and increasingly find myself among those (*ahem* academics in a small college town) who don’t respect the presentational standards that I often still hold myself to, and worse: treat me as if pretty and smart are inversely proportional. But honestly, I’d trade the company of those stuffy marms for a flirty convo with a cute waiter more often than not.

The thing is, I keep getting older and the cute waiters just stay the same age. Just like the ugly transitional growing pains I experienced at puberty and again at the onset of adult independence, I’m re-learning how to live in my skin during another transition: mid-life. As I quietly do everything I can to keep from wrinkling and sagging, lift heavy weights and get my 10,000 steps, and search “perimenopausal support herbs” on Google, I do find myself relying on charm and humor more often than redeeming my pretty privilege coupons.

I understand that I’d be viewed as more virtuous and honorable if I never mentioned any of this stuff. I know that it’s not socially acceptable to like being pretty. I know that in the world of binaries, this makes me a dimwit. So let me just take a moment of silence to remember my true nature. Innnnnhale. Exxxxxhale.

MEDITATION BREAK!

I’m noticing…

that all the images of myself,

all my judgments and definitions,

only exist in the moment when I am thinking them.

Without these thoughts,

without these words,

what am I?

If I take away all the noise,

what exists underneath it is eternal.

But here I am, in the 3D, playing this game.

Okay that was fun. Now back to this hilarious game I’m playing.

It’s just that, when you’re a mom of twins who spent three years feeling like a cow to be milked, it feels pretty awesome to be seen as someone vital, someone with their own interesting life, a person of interest to the movers and the shakers. And usually, that means, looking good. So fuck your binaries and your judgments of me.

Questioning My Standards

My brain finds it both delightful and confusing that now, as a culture, it seems we have tons of options for what is considered “hot.” Half of Gen Z doesn’t even seem to think in those terms at all (I mean, they’re wearing Crocs and cutting their hair into mullets for God’s sake), and half of those who do prize “good looks” are now paying money to achieve the fat ass that I’ve been trying to starve away for decades. I try to keep up by loosening my grip on the Gold Standard, but somewhere in the very depths of my soul, even though it does not serve me, there’s a part of me that can’t let go of the belief that the pinnacle of physical beauty is Britney Spears in the “Slave 4 U” video, tan abs a-ripplin’.

I’m big on awareness. I am always conscious that I am a speck of organic matter on a land mass floating in a galaxy among infinite galaxies, and none of this really matters. I have always been intimate with my own mortality, and even more so since I lost both my parents and the hair I’ve been dying since I was twelve is now showing up with grey streaks at the roots. In every other aspect of my life, I am gung-ho to accept things the way they are, and to find the beauty in them. So why do I Botox my forehead wrinkles as if I’m fooling somebody?

It’s myself I want to fool. I’m not ready to accept defeat. I’m not ready yet for my voice to be heard only by people my age, or for the art I make to only be consumed by my own generation. This is cringe! I know! But would Taylor Swift be Taylor Swift if she was ugly? Come on. It’s a fact that we listen to attractive people first, however horrible that is.

And I know, I know: be the change you wish to see. I do truly find it beautiful when those silver sisters embrace their grey hair, and when Pamela Anderson goes without makeup, and when people decide to age gracefully and just let gravity do its thing. I love the body positivity movement, and I could not be happier that we see all body types in commercials, on runways, and in the mannequins at Target. It frees people to present however they want. But it’s kind of like Women’s Lib. We wanted equality for women so that they could choose to go to work or stay at home. I can’t stand “feminists” who shit on trad wives, and I can’t stand people who age gracefully but talk smack about people who get fillers.

I see evidence of old people being “cool” all around me—and I do think they’re really cool, in a non-poseur, very punk way. I can see that, in our new world, hardly anyone would care if I decided to get a little soft, to let my face sag, to let my hair dye fade out. But there are reasons I continue dyeing, deadlifting, and collagen stimulating. I worry on some quantum level about how hard it will be if I’m no longer “easy on the eyes.” I learned from that past trauma.

Both those times when I was less-than-gorgeous, there was a sensation that to me, was death, though some might even enjoy: I was invisible. I need to feel seen in order to even want to carry on existing; that’s just how I’m wired. And what’s more, I don’t want to be seen in a way I don’t approve of! It’s absolutely ridiculous, I realize: I can’t control the thoughts and opinions of those around me. Also, what’s wrong with just being a regular 40-year-old woman!? Nothing. But if I feel vital and full of creativity on the inside, I want my outside to reflect that, and that youth inside me who got pounded with the beauty standards of her time is still terrified of being irrelevant, still yearning to be loved.

A more “acceptable” way of putting it: I am an artist, and beauty in general is what drives me in this life. What I live for is seeing and creating beauty around me. And everything I touch is my canvas, from my house to my music to this blog to…well, my ever-dying body.