No doubt you’ve read the articles by Samantha Brick— you know, the woman who is just too beautiful?
I am not going to weigh-in on her beauty and apparent conceit. I want to talk about myself. (Sarcasm, if you missed it :))
When I was a teenager, there was a Beauty Pageant held by a social group in my ethnic community. Beauty Pageants were not my thing then or now — I mean, really — but some of my cousins were entering and it was suggested that I enter. Oh, my sides!
I did not. (The heels were going to be an issue, among several other things, including my disdain for the objectification of women.)
I was very cute in my teens and as a young adult. And I am still very cute as I march towards (okay, I’m in the midst of it) middle-age.
But I was never stereotypically hot. Cute is not generally considered hot. (Not that I go around using the word “hot” much — this is simply for illustration purposes.)
Except to those who found me quite hot indeed. There were some then and there are some now.
Did I lament my cute status when I was younger? Yes.
Did I wish I had thicker hair and longer legs. Yes.
Did I have a date to the Prom? Of course.
Were there vastly more “beautiful” girls in my circle. Of course, and how I wished I were taller and did not have such rounded features and pinch-able cheeks. (It’s been years since someone pinched my cheeks, but I think I’d be okay with it now.)
“She has a great personality” used to be code. It probably still is.
But that’s the most important thing to my mind. Personality trumps pretty much everything in my books — not that I don’t have my own thoughts on what’s hot. (Not that I plan to share in a public forum in any case. But feel free to ask me in person if you’re curious. I may share.)
A sour disposition may well be no hindrance to getting a once-over in the bar. But it’s not going to work very well in the long term. Plus a sense of humour is very attractive to most people. I know I like to laugh almost as much as I like candlelight dinners.
I was once told, many years ago, that my “type” — short, sturdy and of Eastern European “peasant” stock — was incredibly appealing. There was something else about going from milking the cows and collecting the eggs to…well, I won’t get into that. But it was an amusing — and oddly flattering — comment at the time and still makes me smile now when I go about my decidedly urban life.