Today at work our adorably gay new administrative assistant came up behind me at my desk to ask me a question and addressed me as “Genius.” “Hey Genius, am I doing this right?” Like the way you would address someone as “Sweetie” or “ Honey” or “Gorgeous” GENIUS. It caught me off-guard. I liked it.
If men have pigeonholed all women into the categories Pretty or Smart, I’ve always been a Smart girl. Growing up I was NOT pretty, or at least I didn’t feel pretty (even though my mom always assured me I was, a notion I considered utterly ridiculous). I had a wicked overbite until braces in 8th grade, a completely inappropriate Mariah Carey spiral perm, and was always the palest kid in my class. I used to get so annoyed when I mustered up the nerve to wear shorts and kids would say to me, “God, you’re white.” NO SHIT, I thought. What was I supposed to say? “Yeah, I’m working on that.” Or “I know, I’m sorry.” I tried to get some color at the local water park or in the backyard with the mosquitoes but ended up with blisters and freckles. In the early 90s self-tanners were a new phenomenon, but the resulting orange streaks of experimentation were even worse than the pasty start. It was a strange and challenging time, middle school gym class, to learn to own your skin tone and assert that you didn’t have to be as tan as everyone else. It blows my mind to think of what a freak I felt like for being fair-skinned. Now that I live in Austin, now that I am an adult, I see people everywhere who are even whiter than me, and I give them an internal high-five.
Growing up I always had a Pretty Friend. A blonde who was always by my side and infinitely perfect. The cheerleader. The student council president. It never failed that the boy I was pining over had his eyes locked on her. I can remember wondering what that must be like, to just wake up and look like that, to be so nonchalantly beautiful all the time. To just be pretty in the world, all on your own, without makeup or any great effort. As an awkward and insecure pre-teen, I didn’t understand how much of it was about confidence. This was a person who had never had to fight with their skin or hair or body, who just had to wake up and approach life au natural. A person who did not know my struggle. I was in awe, invisible by her side.
In college I ended up running into one of those middle school lost crushes at a club in Houston on Thanksgiving break. He remembered me from the old days, but suddenly I was a new person to him. My Pretty Friend was not in the picture, and without her, plus 10 years of life experience, it was finally my turn to be the hot one. Of course we danced dirty and made out in public and exchanged numbers and one marijuana-smoke-filled date. But in the end, he was…boring. Nice enough, but not enough. I don’t even remember what he did for a living. I think he worked for Sprint.
When someone tells me I’m smart it’s no surprise. I already know that. Years of feeling physically inferior drove me to develop a strong intellect and a personality – a journey for which I have unbridled gratitude – but there is still a special something I feel, albeit fading, when someone tells me I’m beautiful. Recently someone stopped in their tracks to tell me I was gorgeous. Not in a construction-worker harassment kind of way – in a stop-and-appreciate beauty kind of way. It was genuine and a true compliment. I was flattered, but hearing that from a stranger didn't electrify or validate me like it has in the past. Now that I am in a committed relationship that kind of compliment doesn’t have the same sparkle. Or maybe it’s that I don’t need to hear it so much anymore.
At this point in my life, I think I’ve mastered Pretty. I understand it. I know how to achieve it. My quest for attractiveness, perfection, copious detail in my appearance, is complete. I see myself in every mirror and I am satisfied. Some might call it vain. I call it obsession, mastered, so that no one suspects. I have attained Pretty. And it is no longer interesting to me. At my college-era Pretty Friend's wedding in Omaha last October, that was all I needed to be: pretty. It was strange and limiting. Pretty in my bridesmaid’s dress, pretty with the wedding party, pretty as one of the two single girls catching the bouquet. Surely if I was pretty I could snag myself a husband. Pretty is the ideal. Pretty is boring. Pretty is depressing. I want more.
I cannot fathom a life of upkeep of my appearance. Micro-dermabrasion, Botox, plastic surgery, expensive face creams, infinite definition of myself based on my physical attributes. I’m sure at 50 I will consider my laugh lines or the wrinkles around my eyes, when things really do start to fall, but here, at 30, I want something else. More. I want knowledge and challenge and intellectual stimulation. I want to make jokes and art and connections. Showing up to work looking perfect is not the fulfillment I am seeking. I’ve been so busy lately that I've been getting dressed in the morning without a thought to how I actually look, only that my clothes match and are clean. I’ve slacked on reapplying lipstick after lunch. It’s been too long since I had a haircut. I haven’t shaved my legs in 3 weeks. Given a free hour the last thing I would do is get a pedicure. Is it Austin? It is adulthood? Is it contentment, security? I want my place in the world at large to mean something. I don’t want to be just a pretty face. I'm more than that.
But what else am I? I've still got so many questions, so much to figure out. I still don't know what I want, and my quest for Pretty has been mostly a diversion as I delve further into the unknown of adult decision-making. Securing my appearance and the way I present myself in the world has been a rock for me to stand on, however unstable, while I attempt to choose a more spiritually substantial route. The true purpose for my talents is yet to be revealed. At least I know I'll look good when I get there. So when you see me on the street, call me Genius, please. You'll make me blush.
