Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”
Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”
And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.
Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.
I don’t think I ever roll my eyes harder than when a man on OkCupid comes at me with “Hello beautiful” (<– Lack of punctuation his, not mine.)
First, I HAVE a name. It’s in my profile. Twice.
Also, I’m 41, so please don’t make me quote Meghan Trainor: “Call me beautiful, so original, tellin’ me I’m not like other girls…”
I’m cute, dude. It’s OK, I know my lane. “Beautiful” seems to be some sort of résumé keyword men* say to average-looking chicks, assuming we all want to hear it and it’ll fast-track them into our draw’s.
BTW, it hadn’t occurred to me that “not like other girls” was a line until I heard this song. In hindsight, it makes sense—I am a special little lady snowflake…just like everybody else. My deep-seated desperation to feel unique is probably evident, so of course men would use it to infiltrate.
P.S. If I ever write a book, I’m calling it “Little Lady Snowflake.”
While a friend was visiting today, she showed me how the new vibrator works — turns out I was using the wrong power button, so the moral of the story is that I can’t even turn on a battery-operated dick.
(I’m done with the theme now, I think. I’m cute as hell, I just thought all this was funny.)
Carrie: “So, what’s the problem?” Miranda: “He said, ‘I think you’re very sexy.'” Carrie: “And?” Miranda: “I was wearing no makeup and my Hanes $3 old-man’s undershirt.” Carrie: “Nice!” Miranda: “I just can’t believe that a guy would think that I was sexy.” Carrie: “OK, I’m hanging up now.” Miranda: “No, I’m serious. Smart, yes. Sometimes cute, but never sexy. Sexy is the thing I try to get them to see me as after I win them over with my personality.” Carrie: “You win men over with your personality?”
For someone who’s so into words, you’d think I’d be less anxious about merely introducing myself to some dude on a dating site.
I have no line. It’s like, “Hi. I’m saying hi.”
This is what I get for mocking guys with prosaic intro messages. Because really, every “hi” is just short for “Hello. I share your affinity for burritos, and I would like our genitals to become acquainted in the not-too-distant future.”
I’m not UNattractive, but I’m not, like, autopilot hot — I’m not one of those absurdly gorgeous women who can just say “hi” and have a guy fall at her feet. I’m like Tina Fey hot — I’m cute and I have good hips, but I still have to rely on my wit. Except I can’t FIND my wit, because I am so tremendously awkward.
It’s cool. It’s like any other piece of writing: just keep drafting, saving, revising, until I end up with something that doesn’t make me feel like a talentless hack. (Except in this case, my photo is with it, and my personality in the form of my profile, so if he doesn’t respond, I will also feel hideous and boring. So that should be fun…)