Permutations of Pretty

Sunday was not a Pretty day for me.

By that I mean I wasn't feeling particularly attractive. I had had a string of sleepless nights, so when I woke up exhausted Sunday morning I promptly made the executive decision to spend the whole day in bed, reading. I happily finished two books.

But I was aware of feeling unattractive, sort of fleshy and pale and dumpy, all day. At one point, I put on my bathing suit and walked around the house, which is something a single girl living alone can do without anyone thinking her weird. But after posing in the mirror a bit (hand on hip, sideways, sitting in a chair, looking over my shoulder) I decided it was still not a Pretty day so I put my pajamas back on and took to my bed again.

In between napping, shoving the cat off my chest and eating PB & J sandwiches and cereal I started to think about "pretty." I realized I have many embarrassing preconceptions when it comes to my ideas of Pretty and the rights and privileges it confers.

For example, I have a friend who I consider to be stunningly attractive. She is also slender. When I first became her friend, I had a hard time believing any stories she told me about her insecurities or her daily struggles. I often found myself thinking in response to any problem she confided "But… you're pretty!" It truly boggled my mind. Surely, being beautiful made her life easier. After knowing her a few years and having a better understanding of the source of her insecurities, I still find myself disloyally thinking that her normal trials and tribulations should be mitigated by her prettiness. I hate that I think this way, but I do.

Conversely, I have a neighbor who periodically will have really, really loud sex for hours and hours such that I'm surprised that the local Code Compliance officers haven't issued her a noise citation. But when I see her in the neighborhood, I find that she is an average-looking woman. Baggy clothes, hair ponytailed, a bit chunky. She confuses me as well, because surely someone so unremarkable shouldn't be allowed to have loud sex for hours and hours. Only the Pretty people are allowed to behave in this way. I hate that I think this way, but I do.

I hate that my reactions to Pretty, or the lack of, are often uncharitable.

Obviously, I concluded, I have some twisted notions of what conventionally pretty women and "average" looking women can and cannot do. Then I became curious about my own definitions of beauty. What do I consider to be physically attractive?

Two images immediately came to mind. Not surprisingly, both my current images of pretty are tied to athleticism. One is imagined, the other is real. Interestingly enough, one is white and the other is black.

So, let's examine the two pretties:

First up, the fantasy woman: The Blond Girl of Summer

This is a girl who lives in my mind's eye and who I see when I think about my ideal image of health and beauty. This girl has a lot to do with sunshine and shampoo commercials. She is a woman of long limbs, flat belly, tanned skin and Botticelli blond hair. She strides along rivers and meadows and mountain paths and beaches. Mostly she is barefoot, and she has fantastic feet with strong tendons leading to the toes. Her hair gleams in the golden light. She eats berries and shellfish. Her legs go on forever. When she strides, the muscles in her thighs are defined and sleek. Sometimes she twirls for no good reason (cue "The Sound of Music"). She is perpetually young, perpetually blithe to the passage of time. She tackles life with physical exuberance. This is the image that comes to mind when I breathe in the scent of heat and sunshine, when I myself feel active and attractive.

Now, the real-life woman: The African-American Bombshell

During an airport layover on my recent trip, I was entranced by a black woman waiting in the same terminal. She was tall, with gorgeous skin, wide, wide hips and thick, strong thighs. Think Queen Latifah meets Serena Williams. She was wearing jeans and a belly-baring shirt. I wanted to look at her forever. I admired this woman's body and her physical presence -- something about her was very attractive and made me intensely curious. I tend to crush out on other women, not strictly in a sexual way, but certainly in an emotional way: I want to be their best friend, I want to hang out with them, I want to hold their hand and share confidences. But this crushing out process always starts with some sort of physical fascination.

In this case, this woman was striking and commanded attention. Now, imagine my giddy horror when the woman and her husband ended up having assigned seats next to me. She was so gorgeous! I was slain by shyness. Eventually, over the two-hour flight, we did exchange some pleasant conversation. I listened to her tease her husband and laugh with him. It became important for me to find a way to tell her that I found her to be beautiful. I know that it's important for a woman -- especially one who is not conventionally pretty according to Western terms -- to know that she is attractive.

So at the baggage claim, while her husband was catching their luggage, I marshaled my courage, and blushing madly the whole time (because I was, in a way, flirting), told her that she was, in my book, gorgeous and shapely. She thanked me very sweetly and said it was always good for mother of three like herself to hear such compliments. Then I turned tail and ran.

So these, lately, have been my two touchstones for beauty. Both fetishized, no doubt, but still yardsticks of sort for my own aspirations.

Strong. Sleek. Muscular. Shapely. Unconcerned with the world's opinion. Engaged in the world.

That's Pretty for me. I wasn't feeling it Sunday. I'd like, this week, though, to have some Pretty days. Some Sunshine Girl days and Bombshell days, or at least the 5'4" and brunette versions of them.