Ugly beautiful thing

Sunday 14th May '06

During a snatched hour in the pub garden the other day, the sunburn and cider bought me to reflect upon how summer seems to change people so radically. My (male) friend was expounding the point that how successful men are depends upon the amount of power they appear to wield, whereas how successful women are depends upon aesthetics. I replied by explaining the interesting position women therefore find themselves in. Human beings are virtually programmed to be more prepared to like an attractive person. It has been proved that attractive people get further in life, easier. Sad but true. However, women (Or at least those in my experience) find themselves in somewhat of a conundrum. I call this the “is she prettier than me?” problem. When we meet someone new, if we are to believe scientists, we will like them more if they are pretty. But always, even if it is at an unconscious level, there is the thought, “but is she prettier than me?” running through the backs of our minds. We will like her a lot more if she isn’t believe me. (All this tends to vanish over time if you become friends with the person, but the knowledge of who is prettier still hangs around in the air. We may not like to admit it but women are always aware of who is the most attractive). So there is always then, a balance going on between the two mindsets. In order to fully like a person on first appearances, she must be tolerably pretty, but not stunning. The same also applies to fat. But magnified by about 100.

This week there has been the most beautiful sunshine, and I have been wearing a dress. The reaction has been startling. Usually I am pretty invisible to people. I get bumped into in the street, overlooked by men and have practiced the art of disappearing quietly from a group completely undetected from an early age. (I get bored really easily). My friend recently told me that I was such an uncontroversial person he couldn’t imagine anyone not liking me. Which is odd really, as I have been picked on all my life as a result of being somehow different. I guess I just try to avoid unpleasantness where I can. My point being, I guess I fall into that category of women I have just described, pretty but not a threat. (Far too fat). Ironically, I have always assumed I fell into the category of ugly/beautiful – considered ugly by some, beautiful by others, but never just normally pretty. All my heroines (And Heros) fall into this category too. I have a particular taste in aesthetics and think the likes of Helena Bonham-Carter, Johnny Depp and Dita Von Teese the most beautiful people in the world, while most people I know find them ugly. One thing I have never experienced however, is what it must feel like to be truly stunning - a femme fatale, loved by men and envied by women. Well, just put on a dress and walk through Birmingham. It’s an education. In just one short stretch of road I was aware of nearly every man clocking me. At least 5 or 6 called out variations of “Oi nice titties!” (Yes, they really do think that this constitutes charm) or wolf whistled. The male sales assistant in Smiths called me darling and gorgeous, and stroked my hand as he gave me the change. The female sales assistant in Boots couldn’t have been more deliberately unpleasant if she tried. On my hurried way home, actually a little intimidated by all the creepy men on my road following me and leering, a taxi full of girls drove past. As it did so they leaned out of the windows and screamed “Fat” at me, as if all the malice in the world could be condensed into that one little word. Now, I am not really what you would call noticeably fat. A bit overweight maybe, but not so much that it could be used as an insult. In fact, in that particular dress I flatter myself I look very good. Those girls could have only two reasons for shouting that. The first is that they were drunk or something and would’ve shouted it at anyone, the second, without sounding too much like my mother, is jealousy. It makes you think doesn’t it, how hopeless women really can be. We hate men because, naturally they are all evil and don’t understand us, but we are even more vicious to our own kind. We sneer at a woman if she is ugly or overweight, wonder why she doesn’t do something about it and preen ourselves smugly. (Why else do you think these reality makeover shows are so popular?) But if we come across a woman who is a threat to our fragile egos we tear her to shreds. How do we ever expect to get anywhere with this attitude? It baffles me. Not to mention the shallowness of the male populous. Why should I be treated any better, noticed more and served quicker just because they can see my cleavage? I don’t look any different. I’m just wearing a lower cut top. It’s unbelievable. I know it sounds so tired and hackneyed now, I’m embarrassed to have to say it, but experience of it firsthand always seems to shock me, even though it happens every summer. It really would appear that men and women alike honestly are blinded by blond hair and big tits. If you cover it up, you might as well not exist, if you don’t you are exposed to ridicule.

My mother is always saying to me, “My god you can’t go out in that, it’s obscene!” Not an unusual comment for a mother to make you might think. But when the offending item is no more than a common or garden t-shirt or blouse, worn with jeans and showing no flesh, no mid-drift or anything risqué, what am I to do? “It’s not the clothes that’s the problem,” replies my mother upon questioning, “it’s just you.” I get hot in summer just like anyone else, but anything less than a woolly jumper gets me branded as a whore. I should be able to wear a cool summer dress in public without everyone on the street automatically assuming I am doing it to attract the attention of men. If I was thin and flat chested you bet I wouldn’t have this problem. Therefore I find myself in the unique position of being made to feel ashamed of both my good points (Face, hair, curves) and my bad (Fat).

Another interesting aside is that while walking through the posh part of town on the way to meet my friends the other evening, I strolled confidently along thinking that at least here, in this haven of fairy lights and expensive restaurants, I would be safe. I was still wearing the offending dress - which is a baby pink, knee length, flared, 50s number – with flat pink shoes, a cardigan and a small white bow in my hair. I had been walking for some time, completely free of leering men, when I passed by a group of 30 something business women, all in their black suits and obviously drunk from the post-work drink. As I walked by they called out “Oi, wonderland is that way, hahahaha! Never land is that way!” shrieking and squawking abrasively and falling about drunkenly as they did so. After the initial catty thoughts in my head along the lines of “Yes, because you’re all so attractive, you remind me of a flock of painted vultures.” Which I wish I’d had the guts to say, I was shocked at this treatment from what I perceived as grown ups. Even though I am now 21, it had never occurred to me that I could be considered a threat to older women (Although now it does make sense). I had always been protected from adult derision through the virtue of being seen as a child. (Probably a lot longer than I should, as I do appear very young). I was also shocked that grown women who should know better still behave this way – like childish bullies. Interestingly though the more abuse I get only strengthens my resolve further. I have never given in to bullying, even at an early age; no amount of pressure could make me less determined to be absolutely me. This is mostly because every time someone says something nasty I am always overcome with relief that I am not them, not so bitter and ugly inside (And more often than not, outside) that I feel it necessary to hurt others in order to validate myself.