Pretty Girls

I wrote this some time ago but ran across it and thought I'd add it in. As I've just been through my Mother's funeral and feel she is put to rest, I remember how she would say "I don't understand why someone so pretty could be so _____(whatever it was she didn't like about me at the time)___." So I have put that message to rest with this as well. Enjoy.

As a “pretty girl” I was always aware of the girls who were “not so pretty”. When I was young, I saw most girls that way. Either they were pretty, or they were not so pretty. Then there were the really, really unattractive girls and they were in a category all by themselves.

Now, as an adult, I see the narrowness of my patterned thinking about what was pretty and what was not. Now,I see that youth is pretty. There is no doubt. Almost all children look beautiful to me now. If a child is unhappy, or hurt or otherwise impaired, they may appear unattractive, but by the sheer nature of their youth the young are all pretty.

As I aged, matured, and grew, I discovered that many girls I had not considered pretty grew into real beauties. This phenomena set me to wondering. What might that say about me? Was there a rule here? Do the young and pretty become old and ugly and the young and not so pretty become old and beautiful?

I discovered it was not quite that simple. But sometimes I felt the discrepancy between myself and others as less from a “better than” position and more from a “how did that happen?” position. Because this conditioning of “being pretty” was strong., it held all the mastery of an addiction and it was well beyond my conscious mind.

Today, I do a jig jog with my attitude from time to time. Recently I stayed in a woman’s house who is of the “not so pretty” variety. Her wedding portrait hangs in the bedroom, a young, pleasing-looking, but definitely plain girl who blooms under the bridal veil. Her bathroom is filled with jewelry, lotions, makeup and other “beauty” tools. My old brain says “Why doe she even try, she’ll never be attractive.” It’s like seeing a monkey wear people’s clothing. But my new brain knows better.

I stop the thoughts, I turn aside, I allow my own humility to soften my attitude and I proceed to look at my own face in the mirror. I am just me. I am no better or worse than she. Not so “pretty” anymore, but also not so empty and not so superficial either. We are each who we are.

I carry a box inside myself where I hold attitudes about people of color, Jews, the poor, the homeless the ignorant and all those “not so pretty” girls. I call it my black box of bigotry.

It exists with the top is open. I can see inside and view all the beliefs, thoughts and feelings I have embedded into my psyche. They never die; they never go away. They are very much alive, but they are boxed in this box. I do growl at them from time to time. “Stay in your place”, I command. “Do not come out and run my life again.”

I’m not proud of the contents of this box. For many years, I put an imaginary lid on it thinking they would not be seen by me or any other. I was wrong, the bigotry laughed and played through my life as surely as if there were no sides on the box or corners to hide in. I’ve put the sides back on the box now, Most days, I think I’ve come to terms with my bigotry and some days I still have to growl.. “Stay put”.