I wouldn't trade it.

Some kind person left this comment under the entry about fun:

I stumbled upon your blog quite by accident, and just wanted to say that you are strikingly beautiful.

I hope you find the fun you are looking for, and have an outstanding life.

I am flattered and grateful. Thank you. But I also hope those ideas aren’t linked; surely the author isn’t wishing me an outstandingly fun life because I am beautiful.

I am very pretty. I have been since I grew through an excruciatingly awkward puberty. It is an amazing gift. Being pretty adds a constant note of grace to my life. I’m sure it eases all my interactions in ways I don’t realize. Being pretty is also nothing I have earned. It is not an accomplishment and I don’t deserve any of what it brings. I don’t deserve an outstanding life for being pretty, or assumptions that I am a better person, or free stuff, or strangers demanding my attention, or jealous assumptions that I’m poaching someone’s man, or the slight but frequent pressure of being under a gaze.

I almost never bring the pretty. My clothes are nondescript and comfortable. I rarely wear makeup. My hair goes in a ponytail as soon as it is dry. I try to never interact with people on the basis of my appearance. If I ignore it and be goofy and enthusiastic or dorky and technical or even just regular, people will usually follow those cues; soon I’m one of the guys again. I occasionally want to use the pretty for some purpose. I’ll get dressed to host a party, when being beautiful casts a glamour on the evening and offers respect to my guests. I loved being trophy on my ex’s arm because I wanted to reflect well on him. I desperately wanted to be beautiful to him, some to keep his attention and some to give him the pleasure of my appearance.

There are good ways and bad ways for me to look beautiful. When I was in college I competed with the taekwondo team. Twice a year I would drop weight to fight as a middleweight. Twice a year I would watch as people stared more at me, stopped me more on the street, paid more compliments, paid more attention to me. By coincidence, the threshold where men started acting very strange was within a pound of my goal weight. The last week before nationals, when I was fasting to lose the last pound, men would turn to walk backward, walk into things, come up to me but say nothing, tug on my clothes and hand me things. I was coming home from workout late night a couple days before my last nationals, when I walked past a group of men. One guy, overweight, redhead, was watching me approach, so I caught his eye and smiled. Completely involuntarily, he shouted in full voice “YOU’RE GORGEOUS!”. Of course I thanked him, but by the time I got home I was so mad I was shaking. “That’s it? That’s all I have to do? Work out three hours a day, six days a week, for months? Not eat for a week? Hurt all the time? And for that, you’ll think I’m pretty?” It is not worth it.

By contrast, the picture in my profile is one of the best I have ever taken. I hope that is what my friends see when they look at me, because I can only think that picture came out like it did because I was with so many people I love. Every good thing in the world was happening just as Chris took that picture. Christy was finishing making apple pie. Anand and I were drinking margaritas and playing cards; we were about to deal Joe in. Dan and Eric were talking on the couch. Chris was wandering through, taking pictures of us to put on Hot or Not. We had another night and day left in the weekend, all talking in combinations and sleeping in a pile, and I knew we were so lucky to be together. In that picture I am laughing and joyful and that is how I want to be beautiful.

Love is testing me but still I'm losing it

I was lamenting to my friend Sean about my long drought. Before you go clicking away from another boring water entry, I mean a drought of a more personal nature… a bedroom nature. Sean and I agreed that it is ridiculous that I don’t have a boyfriend; I am presentable and pleasant enough. Since I’m a great girlfriend once I am in a relationship, Sean figured there must be something about my approach that I could work on.

“Meggie,” he said, “What do you wear when you are working on a guy?”

“You’re looking at it.” I said. “No,” he said, “Those are your clothes for doing chores and gardening. What do you wear when you are out where boys could see you?” When I gestured at my clothes again, he winced, which I totally didn’t get, ‘cause these are my new jeans. “Meggie,” he said, “When was the last time you dressed up?” “Oh! That was for the fall league party. I wore this tight red dress with four inch red heels and cocksucker red lipstick.” “And was there a boy you liked at the party?” “Yeah.” “What happened when he saw you in the dress?” “He jumped and spilled his drink. Someone must have bumped into him.” Sean patiently explained that no one bumped into him, and that if I want boys to notice me, I am going to have to wear girl clothes.

“Girl clothes!” I shouted. “That’s outrageous! They don’t have pockets, and you can’t sprint in them if you need to beat the light, and you can’t just throw them on from the previous day because they get wrinkled! Besides, the colors have to match and you have to wear jewelry, and that takes like twenty minutes!” I can patiently explain things too, so I pointed out all the ways that girl clothing is a repressive tool of the patriarchy to physically restrain women and keep them from full actualization by requiring them to spend their time on stupid shit like earrings. Sean didn’t argue, but he did force me to make an unpleasant choice between fighting blatant injustice and getting some horizontal actualization of my own.

Moving on, Sean asked me how I flirt with the guys I like. “Well, you know how I am usually friendly and smiley and I talk about dorky things? Just like that, only more.” “So if you saw a guy you liked…” “I would probably give him a hug like everyone else, and then tell him about the things I’ve been thinking about recently. Like right now I’m super into Geoffrey Chaucer’s blog, so I would be all ‘hah, hah, hah, and then, he makes fun of John Gower, hah hah’.” “And you still don’t score?” said Sean. “Remarkable.”

Sean told me that I have inadvertently crossed over into one-of-the-guys territory. He listed flirting techniques that might get me out of there. “Do you flip your hair? Giggle? Ask him to get you a drink? Smile demurely? Hit him on the arm?” Now THAT was interesting. “Hit him on the arm? Like a jab, or more of an uppercut? Should I kick him, too?” “Not like that”, said Sean, and he demonstrated with sortof an openhanded swat on the arm.

Gentle reader, I did taekwondo for thirteen years. During college I trained with the team twenty-five hours a week. It would be impossible to count the punches I’ve thrown or the hours I’ve spent with a heavy bag. I have broken boards and a brick with a punch. It has been many years since then, but I imagine I could still return to the gym and learn to box in a matter of months. Those skills aren’t entirely gone, but I am quite sure that I could never learn to swat men on the arm.

Sean persevered. “Meggie, is there anyone you flirt with?” “Oh yeah,” I said. “I flirt with lesbians all the time.” “What do you do?” “Oh, it changes. Sometimes I walk up boldly and look them up and down real slow, then nod, all satisfied. Sometimes I’ll smile shyly, and look down, and look back and blush. I’ll hold eye contact while I tuck my hair. Wearing a shirt that shows downtown Cleveland seems to make me clumsy, ‘cause I just keep dropping things…” “And do they like you?” “Oh man, dykes love me. They’re always hanging on me and asking for sugar. If I only liked the ladylovin’ I would be all set.” “Meggie, that’s it! You just have to do that with men.” “Do that with men… I could never… they would totally get the wrong id- HEY!”

So, dear readers, there is hope for me yet. Perhaps one of you is the dorky gentleman for me. When we meet, there is a good chance that I will revert to my awkward ways. If I am bringing up esoteric shit and asking about your dissertation, please understand that I am flirting with you. If, on the other hand, I am looking at you through lowered lashes and gasping at your wicked lines, please understand that I am imagining you as an especially butch lesbian. Either way, your prospects are good. Go ahead and put the moves on, ‘cause this drought has got to end.