I hate beautiful boys. Not individually, but in general, as a group, a society, a community.
I hate the beautiful girls too, of course…I mean, that’s part of being a girl — especially one who is of average to slightly above average attractiveness, depending on the day…the stunning goddesses and smoldering sexpots and elegant ice queens that I will never be will occasionally fill me with bitter envy and angst and bottomless despair. And I know that there is absolutely zero correlation between attractiveness and happiness, and that being beautiful, especially as a woman, comes with it’s own set of problems, but in a society that so highly values a lovely exterior, I would think it only natural to feel occasional momentary loathing towards sleek nymphs with long legs and long hair lounging on the sweeping lawns of parks, or laughing with other lovely ladies, as they walk down the sidewalk all in this seasons’ coats and look charming and young and fun.
But overall, I am at least as at peace with my appearance, most of the time, and know that I am kind of cute to passably pretty, and moreover have intelligence and talent. And this blog isn’t about girls. It is about boys. Boys with eyes you could drown in, with high cheekbones and indolent pouts. Boys thick hair that falls just so over their forehead, that they brush back with long, elegant fingers while they look right through girls like me.
And in the realistic, immediate sense, in the sense that I have someone wonderful in my life already and am not the kind to look elsewhere, it doesn’t matter. I am not speed dating or trolling eHarmony in hopes of meeting my soul-mate but only getting approached by 40 year old guys who still live with their moms. I’m not trying to trade up or ready to be led into temptation by a wink and a smile from a dashing rake. In any way that effects the course of my life in any realistic sense, it doesn’t matter.
(And I warn any readers now, I don’t actually know where I am going with this rant…it is a simple rant, in its purest form. If I were a normal young woman, I’d just go drink, but since I don’t drink, you’re stuck with me and my senseless ramblings.)
So why do I feel this bitterness and strong irritation bordering on mild wrath when I pass a devastating fellow lounging carelessly against a wall in the hallway, eyes hooded as he chats with a chum or a sweetheart on his phone, perhaps with one lanky leg outstretched and secure in the knowledge that no one will suggest he is in the way, especially not a girl like me who will surely be unable to do more than gaze wistfully at his broad shoulders in passing? Why this cloud that forms and lingers when I pass a stunning gentleman on the street, a man with a tailored suit, a crisp black wool overcoat and deep blue eyes that leave me breathless at just a glance?
I don’t really know, for certain, to be honest. (I told you that I didn’t know where this was going.)
Perhaps it is something akin to the knowledge that, were I to attend a rock concert to see an artist with whom I was enamored, I would not be the girl that would be pointed out to the roadies and offered a backstage ticket. I would not be the young woman in danger of being taken advantage of by the sexy star filming in my home town. Even when I was at the height of my perk and the least of my chub, I wasn’t terribly likely to find myself in that position, and now that I am on the downhill side of my youth, if a gorgeous young seducer tried his wiles on me, it would be, almost without a doubt, the result of some belief that I would be an easy target, rather than a desperate desire for ME. There are now younger and prettier and slimmer girls to admire and any hottie that claimed to want my body would be doing so out of either laziness or boredom. Or worst of all, he could be the warm-hearted wonder-boy that was throwing the older woman a bone (no pun intended), because she was clearly past her prime and beginning to fade, but she was nice and looked like she had been pretty once, so he’d give her one last tumble with an energetic and attractive young man.
Perhaps it is the knowledge that, were my present partner and I to go our separate ways, and I did somehow end up in the arms of a romance novel hero, I’d never be comfortable, never trust it, always be sure that I was a place-holder, a diversion, that a brainy geek with sinus issues might be okay for a while, but that in the long run, a busty vixen or gorgeous girl-next door would take my place. I halfway expect that in all my relationships already, but in a relationship with a beautiful boy, I don’t think I could ever be comfortable or secure.
Perhaps it is merely frustration at my fading youth and a longing for carefree days before I started noticing the first precursors to wrinkles here and there and a tad less bounce in my step and more in my ass. For the times that a a glance and a blush got a wicked smile in return, or when I was certain that the extra bright smile and extended chit-chat from the cute checkout boy was a little more than good customer service… for those times that the boy I had been crushing on for ages finally kissed me until my knees trembled and said, “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you.” Now, a glance and a blush might get back a look that’s sympathetic, confused or amused. The checkout boy probably thinks I’m a nice customer, if a little bit flighty, and calls me ma’am. And any guy I’d been crushing on will hopefully just be polite enough to pretend not to notice, but if he’s an ass, he might laugh with the pretty girl he’s dating this week about it.
Perhaps it is anger at my own irrational biological prerogatives, those that tell me that big, wide-set eyes and a thick healthy coat and long, lean muscles are desirable traits to pass on, totally ignoring the reality of what character-less douche-nozzles beautiful people often are…even if a guy might be dumb as a stack of bricks and an utter ass once he opens his mouth, those full lips will still make my heart race before he does open it.
I don’t really have a conclusion here…just the vague echo of my junior high self wishing that when the cute boy from her math class had finally noticed her, it hadn’t been to be a huge jerk.
