If there's one thing that the world knows about women, it's that they want to feel attractive. I'm no exception. I always liked to believe that I was something different. I was a girl who didn't need to feel pretty because I was a girl who had other great qualities. I'm smart and literary and sometimes witty and that makes up for the lack luster looks. Right? No, not really.
According to a lot of articles that I've been reading lately, women multi-task in ways they don't even know about. It's nearly impossible for a woman to zero in and concentrate on one single thing. I never thought this was weird--I still don't. I think it's weird that a man could possibly think about only one thing at any given moment. Usually these these articles are about sex, about how difficult it is for a woman to reach orgasm while men can pretty much get there regardless of any interference. For women, though, apparently it takes a subtle balance of self-confidence, a clean house, full (but not too full) tummy, temperature and don't forget the determination and patience. If any of these aspects becomes disrupted, the whole balance gets thrown off and I guess you just hope to God that determination weighs more than the rest.
Feeling attractive works pretty much the same for me. There are way too many factors to keep track of but sometimes they all swing together in a way that causes me to walk out the door and down the street with long, deliberate strides. I don't want to just feel pretty, I want to feel like a good woman. It starts with a shower and is almost guaranteed if I go to the trouble of shaving my legs. It creeps through my check book, into my kitchen and surveys the amount of dishes in the sink and the whole-grains and leafy greens in the refrigerator, it goes into my bedroom and through my journals. It rifles through the Rolodex of recent dreams and friends who need correspondence and then goes into my iPod. If everything seems to be in check, I'll just feel good about myself.
This morning I woke up and threw all of my laundry into the washing machine. Arryn then calls me and asks if I want to go shopping with her and the kids. Of course I do. It's Labor Day and I don't have a thing to do. So I search through my closet. I've got jeans that are two sizes too big and jeans that are one size too small. But any too small is too small and out of the question. So I pull on some gigantic jeans. All the tops that are left in my closet are those tops that I never, ever wear--otherwise they'd be in the laundry right now. But I'm thinking, "I'm going to look cute today," so I hike up my jeans and try on about 5 different shirts. Frustrated, I opt for make up. Purple eye shadow, eye liner, foundation, eew. Let's work on hair... I didn't get a shower today so there's sort of an abundance of oil happening at the roots and crunchy dryness happening in the ends. I'm officially a repulsive human being. So I do what you do when you feel disgusting, I texted my friends and told them about it. And they said, "Hey--I've been there dude. I don't know how to fix it, though."
I did. I put on a belt. I washed my face. I pulled my hair back into a pony tail, tore off all the layers of tops and put on an old dorm t-shirt and a hoodie. I put on my flip-flops and stuffed my self worth into my pockets knowing good and well that feeling pretty is only a minuscule part of being an attractive woman.
As I was buckling Genesis into her car seat after a day of talking and walking around Hobby Lobby and Target she kissed me and thanked me for being her best bud. She told me that she thought I had such pretty collarbones (except she didn't know what they're called, she said "I like your those things, they're so pretty" and pointed at my chest. Needless to say I was confused.) . Nothing in the world could make me feel more beautiful. I've always wanted to be the kind of girl who had nice collarbones.