Funny thing is, the people who treat ugly people most aversely are those who aren’t so pretty themselves. The kind of people who spend serious money on cars and houses, on pots and pans of colors and oils and scents, and splurge on designer clothes and things which make them look like… no, not someone who just stepped out of a magazin - rather, like a walking billboard really. They pay Tommy and Ralph a bunch of bucks to make them look like an Ivy Leaguer wannabe. Either these fashion horses feel most prone to ugliness, or deep down inside they’re really ugly and being around ugly people suddenly sets of one of those loud signaling devices embedded somewhere in their person. “Wee-yoooo-weeee-yoooo, fellow ugly person within 3 feet. Weee-yoooo-weeee-yoooo.” Secret’s out. Uh-oh, what ARE you going to do now? Your life is ruined! Everyone knows you’re ugly! Uh… reality check, honey. You weren’t exactly doing a very good job of hiding it. Here’s a tip: Why not get an ACTUAL Ivy League education! How’s that for a fashion statement? Uh, right. Too difficult. All the Aqua Net must have ravaged your brain. Am I allowed to say ‘ugly’ or am I supposed to say ‘visually offensive’ for political correctness? Oh, heck, forget political correctness. It only gives people a license to be politely rude. “Oh, she’s just a person of considerable size.” Considerable friggin’ size?!? Consider this: She’s FAT. And just because you’re afraid of eating one measly potato chip doesn’t mean she’s miserable for eating a box of mallows in one sitting! So there.
I don’t really understand why thin people make this big fleshy deal about what they put in their mouth. Counting calories, weighing fat grams, measuring serving sizes, why go through such torture over satisfying such a basic need? And, the dripping envy oozing out of their pores when they see some relatively bigger person helping herself to a second serving of chocolate cake? “That’s why she’s so horizontally challenged,” they say with so much bitterness, it overcomes the strength of freshly-brewed coffee. Challenged?!? She’s been blessed with hips, hallelujah. She’s not a walking toothpick, woopdeedoo. How presumptuous is it to consider weight as much of a misfortune to others as it is for yourself?
People set standards. Hairy legs, bad. Manicured toes, good. Hips, bad. Breasts, good. Where did all these guidelines come from? And, why are we following them? I don’t remember signing up for any club membership, which required me to torment myself with that hideous activity, called “waxing”. Wax belongs on the floor, on cars and on candles. Not on my legs. My legs are just fine, thank you, even with the dark patches on my knees reminding me of a time when showing my “battle scars” to little boys impressed them and encouraged them to play with me. “Okay, you can play with us. You’re not like those scaredy-cat girls.” Such pride I derived from those days in the sunshine, sweat on my face, dirt on my shirt, running with the pack. Until the little boys grew up and started running after the girls for a completely different kind of game. My scars, which were my passport into the secret society of bike riding and tree climbing, became the prohibition condition to the world of dating and courting. And they say women change their minds too often.
Either we’ve all seen to many Pygmalion-themed movies or we’ve all been adversely affected by the story of the Ugly Duckling. I always secretly hoped that instead of turning into a beautiful swan, he just stayed an ugly duckling, went to another part of the pond, founded a colony of ugly ducklings who took over the pond and became filthy rich selling pre-packaged duck food to the vain ducklings who didn’t have time to worry about food. I know it’s far-fetched but isn’t the idea of superficially cruel, narcissistic ducks stretching the truth a bit already?
They say that movies like My Fair Lady, Clueless and Cinderella are all meant to be inspiring, but what are they supposed to inspire exactly? Discontent? Self-denial? Delusion? Are we all supposed to believe that a wave of a glossy black mascara wand can help us find Prince Charming? Are we supposed to think that wearing a pair of Nike Air Jordans and clicking your heels three times is going to help you find your way to the Wonderful Wizard of Love, Happiness and Lots of Women?
Fairy tales make everything seem so easy. There should be some form of a disavowal after each one of those sappy happy loopy stories:
DISCLAIMER:When we say ‘The End’. We don’t really mean it. Life doesn’t end in happily ever after, but whatever happens after is usually too uninteresting or too morbidly traumatic that it won’t look very good in print. For insights on subsequent events, please refer to ‘Mars and Venus Get a Divorce’ or ‘Chicken Soup for the Lonely, Dumped and Broken-Hearted’. Thank you.”
I sort of think it’s rather sad when I go to a local Starbucks and see it chock full of teenagers, sipping Frapuccinos and talking as if their lives were so marvelously interesting. Shouldn’t you be at home studying instead of spending your parents’ money on cigarettes and bar drinks? Flirt, flirt, gossip, gossip, flaunt, flatter, flee reality. Life in two dimensions: Denial and Pretension. They start so young. Why do you need to sit in a café and pay for overly-priced coffee in order to make yourself feel better about who you are, kid? Why is there an absolute necessity to flaunt that you’re better than that young girl out in the parking lot selling flowers for tomorrow’s lunch money? By the way, it’s your parents’ money, not yours. Starbucks perfectly represents the widening financial disparity of this country.
Sometimes, I feel a bit ashamed that I just spent some family’s one week’s worth of dinner money just so I can get a caffeine fix. I’m not really paying for the “fresh brewed Argentinian coffee beans”. I’m paying for the fun of coming into Starbucks in slippers and a raggedy shirt and watching the little cliques stare at me as if I were insane. Not everyone needs to look like a movie actress to feel good about themselves, children. (Excuse me, while I roll my eyes at myself.) I shouldn’t care, really, what other people think. And just because I’m not all fluffed up and prettied doesn’t mean I don’t have the same holier-than-thou-art attitude. On the contrary, my blatant disregard for convention is rooted in an even greater need to be above others. Self-righteous maturity is the biggest oxymoron of this century.
I’m not prejudiced against ugly people. I’m not prejudiced against pretty people. I’m prejudiced against people who aren’t being true to who they are, including myself. I know some of these pretensions are rooted in something outside of oneself and is actually a derivative of a society whose identity was lost a long time ago when the Spanish burned everything down, but I believe that there’s a way to exist wherein your point is not to be better than others, not to make others feel less about themselves and definitely not to become someone else. I believe that you don’t have to have a fairy tale life in order to be happy with who you are. Make do instead of make up. Accept instead of pretend. Self-love instead of envy. To want ourselves instead of wanting to be someone else. To consider anything fake as ugly and anything real as inherently beautiful.
I just want to stop needing to escape from myself and into anonymity in order to feel freed from shame of what 26 years of living has made of me. I don’t want to be a by-product of money, appearances, reputations and all that. I just want to be me, whoever I am. Though living in this plane of existence makes it very difficult to tell the difference anymore between real me and derived me.
I lost my point somewhere, I think. Can you find it? I’m done.
Oh, wait. By the way, as much as there are sweeping generalizations in this here mess of words here, you know I'm not talking about everyone who's ever bought something expensive and nice-y for themselves nor all the people loitering in Starbucks nor all thin people nor all anything at all. There are certain kinds of people who filter through the cracks of pretension (meaning they AREN'T pretentious), the ones who don't get past are the ones I'm talking about. Oh, you know what I'm talking about here, so just can it. End disclaimer.
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