My heart ‘s been as heavy as a Volkswagon bus for the past few days. I can’t stop thinking about poor Samantha Brick, that thin, statuesque, goddess-like British woman who recently wrote an article entitled, “’There are downsides to looking this pretty.’ Why women hate me for being beautiful.”
There’s been a tremendous uproar over her story. Twitter’s having a feed frenzy. There are e-mail hate campaigns and Samantha’s “friends” have been Facebook messaging about her right and left. Of course, she did say some pretty awful things about them (and about women in general), but still… She reports that all of this has made her cry, which is really hard on pretty people, because it makes their eyes puffy and their noses red.
I know what Samantha is going through. I never mention this on my blog, because I don’t want to alienate readers, but I too am a very, very beautiful woman.
It’s a hell you plain people cannot imagine. I arise each morning and immediately run to the mirror. I gaze into it deeply, searching desperately to see if anything about me has changed; if, by some overnight miracle, God has seen fit to bestow upon me some flaw; a wrinkle maybe, or perhaps a laugh line (though really, it’s hard to laugh when you’ve suffered as I have).
In her article, Samantha wrote:
Throughout my adult life, I’ve regularly had bottles of bubbly or wine sent to my restaurant table by men I don’t know. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my train ticket when I was standing behind him in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming gentleman paid my fare as I stepped out of a cab in Paris.
Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and presented with a beautiful bunch of flowers. Even bar tenders frequently shoo my credit card away when I try to settle my bill.
And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the donors of these gifts have always said the same thing: my pleasing appearance and pretty smile made their day.
Wow, can I relate. I can’t tell you how many bottles of Tott’s I’ve uncorked, due to the kindness of some strange man whom I’ve dazzled. I could take a cab from here to Tokyo, knowing that as soon as I step out onto the curb, there will be a generous man pulling a wad of cash out of his wallet to pay my fare. I’m like the freaking petals on a rose.
My Mother tells this story: On the day I entered the world, everyone present in the delivery room gasped when I emerged from her womb– a slender, tall, blonde baby with absolutely no traces of amniotic fluid or other messy liquids marring my flawless, tiny being. “Oh my—she’s perfect,” one of the nurses said sadly. “She’s incredibly gorgeous,” said the doctor in a grim and serious tone.
Mom, immediately aware of the horrible road ahead of me, began sobbing and rending her hospital gown.
“Isn’t there something you can do?” my father asked desperately. “Some procedure you can perform?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s not,” the doctor replied gravely. “She’ll just have to adjust to a life of physical perfection.”
My father shook his fist toward heaven and cried out, “Why? Why? Why?” He could only imagine the future that lay before his new daughter.
It was a tough childhood. At first, things were okay—children are blissfully unaware of the differences between them. My playmates and I laughed and frolicked and adults were nice to me. I believe the trouble began in second grade, when a doughy little classmate named Amanda accused me of trying to steal her boyfriend, Todd. I hadn’t tried at all—Todd was magnetically drawn to me (as are all males)—to my thick, shiny, perfect hair and my pale, porcelain skin. My fairy princess beauty made me a target for bland little girls, who began grousing on the playground about my incredibleness. One morning, Todd slipped me a note that said, “Wil u be my grlfrnd?” Amanda somehow found out about it—possibly because I’d casually mentioned it to her—and had the gall to tell me that I was no longer her friend. I went home in tears.
“Screw that little biotch,” my mother said. “She’s just jealous of your dainty little nose, your cornflower blue eyes and your golden halo of hair.”
I stopped sniffling. I knew my mother was right. Every female on Earth was jealous of my attractiveness. I realized at that point that it was my cross to bear. I knew I’d have to toughen up to get by in this world. Either that, or sleep with a whole lot of people.
In high school, I was head cheerleader (due to both my beauty and my bendiness) and the boys in class nominated me for homecoming queen four years running. Of course, I never won—fifty percent of the school was comprised of ordinary-looking, mousy girls who simply could not deal with the fact that I was a genetic masterpiece. I tried to reason with a couple of them.
“Look, Tiffany. I can’t help it that I’ve achieved visual perfection. It’s not my fault that, compared to me, fashion models look like Yoda.” Try as I might, I just couldn’t get through to any of those petty, jealous females. Thank God for the football team. And the basketball team. And the lacrosse team.
At one point, one of my teachers suggested that I work on honing my personality, that I start developing traits she called “character” and “substance.”
“Moonbeam, it’s not enough to be gorgeous and physically perfect in every imaginable way,” she said. “Perhaps you should try being kind to others. You know, show interest in them. You could do volunteer work, or read a book or take up a hobby—broaden your horizons! There’s more to life than good looks.”
It was obvious that she, like all the others, was simply eaten up with envy. I looked at her appraisingly. No way was I taking advice from someone with a bad perm and polyester pants. “Look, Ms. Ipswich,” I told her, “You have no idea how hard my life is. I don’t have time for all that stuff. And I’m sorry, but there’s not more to life than good looks.” I stared at her meaningfully. “Unless of course, you don’t have them.” End of conversation.
In truth, I did read a book once—well, part of one. It bored me, and my mind kept wandering back to the subject of how lovely I was. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re this amazing.
Thank heaven for men. They appreciate my dazzling, blinding beauty, and they compensate me well for it. I’ve received jobs and jewelry, concert tickets and oil changes, all because the males of this world are intelligent enough to realize that the gorgeous package that God wrapped me in is something to be rewarded. Usually, these gifts are lavished upon me unsolicited. Once in a great while, I solicit. It’s rare, but I do find that it’s a great way to make extra spending money to buy the materials necessary to maintain the spectacular person that is me.
I pity Samantha Brick. I understand what it’s like to go out in public and endure the glares and whispers of other women. I don’t even try to converse with them, knowing that they’ll misinterpret the way I flirt with their husbands and pinch their muscular behinds. Women are so catty.
Case in point: last Saturday, I attended a large, lavish soirée that my boss was hosting. I was running a little late—I’d been busy fighting off men who’d been lusting after me throughout the day— and as I pulled my car into the last handicapped parking space, a little prune of a woman in an ugly green Buick cursed at me as I beat her to the spot. I got out of my car and she rolled down her window and yelled, “You don’t even have a handicapped sticker!” I noticed that she did. See? Jealous. Jealous of my beauty, jealous of my superior driving abilities. Jealous of my lack of physical disabilities. I ignored her, walked into the building and made my way to the party.
There were at least two-hundred people in attendance—co-workers, clients and associates of my employer. I heard them collectively gasp as I walked in. Of course, I was stunning, statuesque and undeniably sexy, as per usual. The poor women had all tried to make the most of what they had to work with, but honestly? Either you’ve got it or you don’t, and there’s not a dress designer, personal trainer or hairdresser on Earth who can change that fact. No plastic surgeon can recreate what I’ve got. Women try to duplicate it, men try to possess it. It’s just so, so difficult, being this beautiful. You can’t imagine what I have to deal with. I could see the women inching possessively closer to their partners. I did what I always do. I held my head high, and ignored them all. Oh sure, some smiled and tried to talk to me, but that disingenuous crap chaps my perfectly rounded butt. I headed to the bar as every man in the room stared and drooled. I threw back a couple of double martinis. The waiters kept offering me little hors d’oeveurs on trays. As I said, guys are always trying to give me stuff. I refused the food, preferring to keep my tall, lithe body empty, save for the olives in my drinks. I knocked down a couple more ‘tinis.
Eventually, I decided to try to socialize. I wandered over to a group of people standing in a corner of the room. They were conversing about politics—something about an election or something. I stood beside a tall, handsome drink of water who, needless to say, fell in love with me on the spot. His dowdy wife smiled and said hello, but I could see that behind her grin was a wildfire of burning resentment. “Who are you voting for?” she asked. I gave a little martini hiccup. “Don’t give me that crap,” I told her. “You know you’re just trying to hide the fact that you’re jealous of my incredible beauty.” I took another swig of my drink and turned to her husband. “Hi, handsome,” I said, before his wife hauled him away. I swear, that green-eyed monster is everywhere.
I wanted to dance. After all, it was a party. Of course, no man would dare ask me because of my intimidating exquisiteness and because they feared risking the wrath of their backbiting, homely dates. I decided to shake my moneymaker solo, and I must say that I was fabulous. I twirled and wiggled and made full use of one of the large poles that held the roof up. I could tell that the men were all longing to join me; I inched between a few dancing couples, but for some inexplicable reason, this upset the females. A few of them dragged their men away—I’m always dealing with things like this.
Things get hazy after that. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m bad with names—it’s one of about
three two flaws I have. At some point in the evening, I started assigning people nicknames—I don’t remember all of them, but I do recall that I referred to a couple of the men as “Studalicious” and “Sweetcheeks,” and there were two women named “Fishface” and “Wide Load.” Of course, my wit was completely lost on these gals— I can’t recall a lot of the evening, but I do remember the way they looked at me—I’m sure it’s very similar to the way that jealous females glared at Marilyn Monroe when she stepped into a room.
One woman (“Mr. Ed”) rudely pulled me aside. She asked me what I was doing with my hand on her husband’s thigh. I can’t recall what I said, but I do know that thanks to her, I now sport the first imperfection that has ever graced my face—a little purple shiner beneath my Caribbean blue left eye.
I have a delicate constitution, and I believe that it was soon after that jealous horse-faced woman punched me that I gracefully barfed upon a very nice oriental rug.
That was a week ago. The women at work have never spoken to me much, but now they’re completely ignoring me. Their dull, ordinary faces look at me with hostile envy, then they turn away. Angelina Jolie probably faces this each time she walks onto a movie set. Sadly, even she can’t hold a candle to me.
I’ve thought about ways to improve my situation. Counseling’s out, unless I can find a professional who’s experienced the horrors of being a Great Beauty. Maybe I could start a Twelve Step Program, like Unbelievably Gorgeous Women Anonymous. Of course, no one as lovely as me could ever be anonymous. I suppose I’ll have to walk alone through this world, relying on the kindness of men and vision-impaired women to get me by.
It’s horrible, it really is. I assume that you, like most of the people in this world, could never possibly relate. I just pray that somehow, I’ve helped you understand the burdens of beauty. And I hope everyone will back off from poor Samantha Brick.