Now…I am going to discuss something that has proven controversial in the past and has always been received with a certain amount of skepticism as to its sincerity.
I am about to criticize women. But not all. Only a small but noticeable percentage of them.
And if one, and I mean one, person attributes this to jealousy, low self-esteem or cattiness I swear to God I will find you. Oh yes, I will find you. And it will not be pleasant. I will bring an iPod teeming with Barry Manliow if pressed.
So. It seems to me that the aim of a great number of girls in their early twenties and a select sad few in their mid 30’s is to base their entire concept of self-worth on how they look. I will grant you that yes, in high school, I spent a great deal of thought worried about how I looked. I would look in windows as I walked by, checking to make sure my hair was in order and my lip gloss intact. I based my self image on how many boys looked at me. As I hit my twenties, it waned, but it was still there. Thankfully I grew out of it. And this was ten, fifteen years ago; things were not a great deal different, but just enough to matter.
I got married, and now have a wonderful husband who tells me constantly how beautiful he thinks I am…and it means so much to me that he does. Because I know that even when I’m 80, or if I were to have some disfiguring accident (knock on wood), he would still feel the exact same way. Because now I know that it is not of the outside he speaks, but of me, the person…who beyond the face is funny, caring, kind, intelligent, talented, witty, loving and nurturing. And after several years, I can understand and acknowledge that. But I am lucky. I have changed my priorities such that I am able to develop myself as a person, internally. Some women realize this as well.
Some do not. I think it’s a curse upon girls who are ‘potentially pretty’ as they feel it is their social obligation to look perfect all of the time. The thought that someone would look at them and not acknowledge their attractiveness is terrifying.
The difference between 10 years ago and now is that when I was in high school, not one girl I knew had breast implants or plastic surgery. I knew of no one who had an eating disorder or a hair stylist. No one even had cell phones. (At that time they were still the size of a shoebox). What I have noticed is these girls are having a hard time growing out of this phase. I work with a relatively young group of people. I work in a restaurant, so most of the employees are young with a diploma as their highest level of education. The boys seem relatively average; they party a lot and smoke too much weed, but they’re in their late teens/early twenties. They do that. But the girls are the ones I worry about.
The first group I’ve noticed are the ones who have fanatically low self esteem, which is pretty typical at that age, but they think the cure is external. I see them drool over the ribcages of Victoria’s Secret models. I see them get breast implants, when they were perfect just the way they were. They spend hours in tanning beds, with no consideration for the damage they are doing to their skin nor contemplating the threat of skin cancer. I know some of these girls personally, and it’s hard to hear them speak about a pimple as if it were a permanent scar and a pound as if it were the kiss of death. They put themselves through both physical and mental torture all because they have assigned their appearance as their identity. “The pretty one”. Pretty is fleeting. Some day, some person somewhere might say, “ah…she used to be the pretty one”. And then? Their obsession with their looks is a mask for their turmoil, because for whatever reason, they have no self-worth. And it breaks my heart. Because that could have been me.
The second group I’ve noticed are the ones that get on my nerves and the ones ‘normal’ women loathe and are thereby deemed as catty. They’re the ones who don’t grow out of it when they hit their 30’s. They’re the ones who dolly themselves up not so much for self esteem, but to be noticed. They want to be desired by men and envied by women. They are constantly trying to out-do each other. They spend their free time shopping or getting their hair bleached while discussing what they need to get from Macy’s. (This is true; I’ve seen it when I was getting my hair trimmed). They have an attitude that the other group does not. They have an arrogance about them. They look upon the homely with pity. They strut. They are constantly fussing with their hair. They travel in packs, I’ve noticed. I’ve had them at my tables at work. They have the biggest rocks on their French-manicured fingers and flash them whilst sipping their champagne. They have inane conversations. The blather on about how munch money they spend on shoes and how their husbands are never home. They tend to be condescending to me even though in 15 years they will realize how much happier I am than they. They wear so much makeup, you can almost see their skin screaming underneath. Women are competitive by nature. Obsessively. You see them staring each other down, looking for some flaw, some imperfection that they themselves don’t have. The type of place I live in is littered with this type of women. I see them at the coffee shop with their Tommy Hilfiger-clad toddlers in their $500 stroller chatting with other women and their designer babies. What are they teaching their children? They always have to have bigger, better, more. They’re insanely trendy. One has it, then two, then it’s a plague. Why do women have to make being women so damned difficult? Why can’t they just have the same attitude that men do? You hang out, chat up your buddies, go to sporting events, laugh at each other’s balding hair and high-five ’em when something awesome happens. Men have it made. They know how to have a good time; they’re not threatened by their own gender.
Please keep in mind that this entire entry is only based upon my own personal acquaintances and observations. I do not speak of all women. There are those of us who think Mac’s are the shiznit and the Spurs are the best damn team in the NBA. We kick back with a beer and some great conversation. These are the kind of women I am friends with. We enjoy each other’s company; we can spend an evening hanging out without mentally contemplating the cost of each other’s Lois Vuitton. Hell, I don’t even have any friends with Louis Vuitton. They’re all tote bags and backpacks. They know how to live. How good we have it. We kick ass.
I will tell you this: there is one very important piece of evidence that proves Type 2 women buy into trendiness:
Velour jogging suits.