Writing About My Body, Day 10
It’s hard to feel unbeautiful when Josh Groban has his mellifluous tongue (virtually) stuck in my ear. And also when I’m drinking a bottle of sauvignon blanc I bought at the corner store on my way home from work. Which may point to a certain type of single-woman-of-a-certain-age solitude but has nothing to do with if I am beautiful. But what does have to do with beauty? Why do I feel beautiful on one day and not another? Or in one hour of the day and none of the others? Or vice versa? Is it the clothes? Is it the makeup? Is it the way the sun feels on my shoulders? Is it remembering–as my sunglasses slide down my sweat-slicked nose one. more. time.–how giddy I was when I first tried on said sunglasses? Is it the precise torque of curls in my hair? Someone might answer–it’s confidence, but I’d counter that confidence is as fickle a beast as any, perhaps moreso, and there have been plenty of days I’ve felt gorgeous while still feeling insecure about something or the other. Is the question what makes me feel beautiful, or what makes me feel unbeautiful? Which set of answers is most useful? Do I then avoid at all costs the unbeautiful makers and surround myself as much as possible with the beautiful makers? Or can certain things fall in either camp depending on the phase of the moon, if the bus is late or not, how many times I hit the snooze button, if I’m listening to Jack White or Josh Groban on the way to work, if I’m reading a romance novel or staring into space, if the person sitting next to me is thin or fat and I feel comfortable or squished in the seat, if I’m late or on time, if I took a shower that morning or the night before, if I have five meetings that day or not even one, if my sister has made me laugh for the 1,000th time this year or the 1,000,000th, if I get light cheese on my pizza or none at all, if I watch Jeopardy or get so caught up on Facebook that I forget, if I want to write a blog that night or I don’t want to write a blog? If I can’t aspire to feeling beautiful every minute of every day because the conditions are mutable, unknowable, irreproducible, imprecise, what then do I aspire to that gets to the same place? Or is the question not whether or not I feel beautiful but rather how sensitive I am to that place in me where I feel beautiful most of the time and know enough to fake it the rest of the time? When I don’t feel beautiful, am I just making to much noise of all the wrong sorts? Is it not the appreciation of our peculiar and singular and wonderful beauties that changes, but our willingness to walk in those peculiar and singular and wonderful beauties? Is it a choice?