April 24, 2011

“Pretty Girl Blues”

I don’t do anything half-way. So when it came to dating without strings attached, I decided to go for it. Enthusiastic, I jumped on Match.com again (the first time was six months ago and I went on one date with the guy I saw exclusively before he dumped me) and waited for something interesting to come along. I’m not sure if this works for everyone, but I definitely want to be pursued. Winking/emailing/interesting first means I’m taking the initiative, which undoes the entire premise of being chased, so for the most part I don’t do it.

I didn’t have to wait for long. Emails at the rate of twenty-plus per day began filling up my inbox, and I had to change my filter settings. In the first three weeks over a thousand people had viewed my profile, which doesn’t mean anything except I take a pretty good picture. My main photo is a shot of the right side of my face in black and white. My hair is tied back, and I’m not smiling (all apparent ‘no-nos’ according to Patti Stanger of Millionaire Match Maker fame). In fact, the moment that picture was taken, I was on the verge of tears—my constant state of existence while I was dating Mr. Exclusive.

Perhaps enacting the prey in my picture helped these men get the idea—here was a woman who wanted saving/ravishing. But I must admit, this is a misleading signal; I can take care of myself and have been doing just that for the past four months. Before that, I took care of my ex-husband, too. And I don’t know how to say this without coming off conceited, but I guess maybe I’m kind-of okay looking.

I was talking about this with my sister-in-law, who shares a similar ethnic mix and is drop-dead gorgeous. As a teenager she got so much attention she began to distrust the men and women who complimented her. She wanted to be appreciated for more than her perfect smile and luscious hair; her fine skin and flawless body (trust me, she’s had more than three kids and every time, her body bounces back within weeks of giving birth. Because we don’t share the same genetic makeup, I have every right to hate her for this). “That’s why every time your brother tells me I’m hot, I get angry.”

They married when she was twenty-three, and at that age, I may have felt the same. As a child, I heard, “You’re gonna be a heartbreaker” more times than I can count, which I didn’t really understand. Contextually, I understood that this was a good thing, but the words meant something I never wanted to do or become. If just being meant I would hurt someone, something would have to change. When I was older I remember gaining weight and not combing my hair to go deeper inside myself without the distraction of the world telling me I was pretty. And to a certain extent, it worked. I didn’t stop being pretty, but I actively sought out men who appreciated what I had to say over those others.

Which is how I came to marry my ex. He might have complimented me on how I looked maybe once a month, but his most constant comment had to do with my mental acuity. After ten years of this, I came to realize that perhaps being comfortable with my physical and intellectual qualities might be more rewarding, not to mention more accurate. Being who I am means being pretty, which likely won’t last my entire life unless, like Sophia Loren, I defy the laws of nature and never sag or wrinkle (that later already setting in around my eyes).

I’m lucky. I get to choose from a population of men who have lots going for them, and whether or not they admit it, they want the whole package just as much as me. Because if he can’t turn me on with his smile as much as his witty banter, a disconnect occurs between the libido and the mind, and I end up faking it ‘til I make it—something I vowed never to do again where matters of the heart are concerned.

But even if I were supermodel material, which I am definitely not, personality makes me spicy. My neuroses and quirkiness prove I’m interesting to be around. The way I see the world, based on my travels and experiences and hurts make me different, and like my completely unique fingerprints, I’m the only me that will ever be. So twenty emails or two; a thousand views or a hundred, men on the other side of the ether beware: placing me on a pedestal because of the way I look will only end in broken toes.