Today I am horrified by a variety of details related to my physical appearance, my intelligence and my basic abilities to perform the various administrative tasks that plague my daily existence.
For example, let's start with my cuticles. God, they are disgusting. Seriously, have you seen them recently? Have you noticed just how ragged they are? I don't even bite my nails or anything. They are just naturally that bad. I remember reading an article once about how to impress people during job interviews, and one woman was quoted about how she always checks a woman's manicure. Apparently, a woman with well-kept nails is a woman who deserves to be offered a job. Ravaged nails, on the other hand...clearly a sign of an unwell mind.
Manicure? Good lord.
Actually, I did get a manicure once. I casually entered the nail salon, as if "getting my nails done" was something normal for me. When I sat down across from the nail technician, she gave me a knowing look. "You don't really seem like a 'manicure' kind of girl," she said.
She was right--I'm not. But what did that mean? Was it a compliment? I tried to take it as a compliment. "Yes, I'm so confident and naturally alluring that I don't need to do stuff like this to feel okay about myself." Or did it mean something else--something else entirely? I could imagine her eying my never-laundered-since-I-bought-it-at-the-thrift-store sweater, thinking, "A little nail polish isn't going to distract from the mess that is you."
My own mind displays plenty of skill and creativity when cataloging my various faults (the ridiculous fit of my pants--"what was I thinking?", my fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight...), but when this is not enough, I've found that the universe will provide.
I can take it all the back to fourth grade, when I was systematically tormented by "Todd Womper" (whose real name I totally want to use, but I won't) for being hideous and unpopular, and who frequently declared that I would grow up to be a "hooker." (Which actually doesn't sound so bad right now.) I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it in the third-wave feminist, sex-positive kind of way.
Before the fourth grade, I was blissfully unaware of my own unattractiveness. The need to be physically acceptable to other people didn't even cross my mind! But this episode of harassment (well, a year-long "episode") was probably a blessing in disguise, really, in the way it helped instill a general mood of self-loathing that has encouraged me forever more to police my own appearance--reducing the need for others to monitor it for me.
But there will always be someone willing to lend a hand, right? Let's reflect for a moment on the complicated subject of other women.
I should start by saying that I like women; most of my friends are chicks. But I distrust women who don't like other women--the kind who declare that they "just get along better with men" (while pouting and jutting a hip) or who giggle and say, "I don't know, I guess I'm just intimidating to women!"
These are the ones who are dangerous--the ones who are always on hand to make a catty comment about your footwear ("Cute shoes, Shannon--I remember those from two summers ago!") or your makeup application techniques ("Have you EVER thought about using a foundation brush?").
Seriously, how are you supposed to respond to this kind of thing? I guess I could try to be empathetic--"Goodness, she's just as self-loathing as I am! We have so much in common..."--and give the offending commenter a break, right?
Or I could take solace in another cliche, that thing people always say in these situations--"She's just jealous." Is that so? As a perenially unpopular person in my youth, I don't buy that at all. "She just gets off on insulting people she perceives to be 'beneath' her." Okay, that makes sense.
Take, for example, "Nadine," the friend of this guy I once dated. When "Edgar" and I got together, Nadine was all excited about it. "God Shannon, I'm so impressed with Edgar, he's really changed," she said, pulling me aside earnestly at some party. "I mean, he used to be so concerned with being cool and having hot girlfriends. But he's totally gotten past that. I mean look at him now--he's dating you!"
I'm still trying to determine the best response to this sort of comment, which, if experiences my mom has had in recent years are any indication, are going to be lobbed my way well into my 60s. "Take the higher road" and say nothing? Back-handedly compliment in return? Sleep with her boyfriend? All are viable options, and yet none seem just right.
No comments:
Post a Comment