the ugly step-sister and other fairly stupid tales

It has occurred to me what a terrifying word ugly is. And fat is even worse. Quoting the lovely Margaret Cho, “Ugly is irrelevant…it is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion. A matter of taste…” Lately it seems that the only conversation I hear is talk of nothing but this new diet or pill or exercise plan or self-tanner or teeth whitener or whatever. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my little pearly white teethies just as much as the next person, but when did I get caught up in the hype of becoming this cardboard cutout of what a beautiful woman “should” look like. Most of my life I have grown up hearing about how beautiful my sister is. Yes, for all intents and purposes, she is a good-looking person—the kind of girl that gets stares and catcalls and creepy older men desperately trying to get her number in their phones—but why does her beauty have to equal my ugly? And when did I fall victim to the illusion that thin equals pretty and fat equals unattractive and undesirable. When did I decide it was okay for me to accept less than acceptable from my relationships because I was “lucky” to be landing these attractive men. After all, who wants the ugly step-sister when you can have Cinderella? This is how I feel. Pathetic isn’t it? As a person of intelligence and confidence—I have surprisingly little of either in relation to the shell of my essence that is my body. I have no insight or revelations for this blog. It’s almost painful and embarrassing to admit that I’m so insecure about something I pretend to be so flippant about. When someone tells me that I’m beautiful or attractive or sexy or any compliment in relation to my appearance, I am not pretending to be modest or gracious—I cannot accept your compliment. I do not accept my beauty and I do not accept that anyone else can find me beautiful.

So from the age of 10, I became anorexic, and then bulimic, and then stayed that way for about twenty years, until one day I just said, Hey, what if this is it? What if this is just what I look like, and nothing I do changes that? So how much time would I save if I stopped taking that extra second every time I look in the mirror to call myself a big fat fuck? How much time would I save if I just let myself walk by a plate-glass window without sucking in my gut and throwing back my shoulders? How much time would I save? And it turns out I save about 97 minutes a week. I can take a pottery class. –Margaret Cho