the beast of beauty

Beautiful women go through life as if it were a maze. They get trapped, sort of, but there's always a way out, and no door is ever really closed. It just leads someplace else. The maze is erected by so many, many people who so desperately want to possess beauty that they try and confuse it, tame it and make it stay. But really, beauty and the woman possessing it, just wants to escape to a place where it will be cherished and understood.

But nobody can understand beauty. And even those who claim to cherish it only want to possess it. Still others want to kill it off, cover it up, take it away, make it theirs.




There are women more beautiful than I, of course. But I have been fortunate to live my life with many open doors that I know I've walked through not because of my brains or my wit or connections but because of my face, my legs, my breasts, whatever a someone or someones deemed appealing at that moment. There have also been, at times, perplexing mazes with people waiting just outside them, hoping I've surrendered somehow, that I'd be putty in their clever hands. But I haven't. I've walked through those doors, found the one way out of their bewildering construction. All in all, yes, I've probably had it better than most but I've also been lied to, manipulated, loved for the wrong reasons, put on ridiculous pedestals, told to change, and made to feel less than.

But, most of all, still: I've had it pretty damn good, I'd say. I mean, a big smile or a flirty gesture and a lot's gotten done. Tables have turned in my favor from that crap.

As I've gotten older and deeper into my 30s and longed for the respect that can only come from accomplishment, intelligence and sophistication, I've learned to relinquish my hold on the fail-proof methods that once turned heads in my 20s. But, the funny thing is, now that I'm here, I've noticed that girls in their 20s are inappropriately vying for the same positions at work as I am. Or, well, they want to be right there near me, riding my coattails, sniffing me too closely. And I'm thinking: no way in hell. I've earned this position through my hard work and my talent.












And the worst thing I've noticed? These girls don't give a lick about hard work. Or talent. They're just busy doing the hair flick and giggle. The low top. The short skirt. The tarty 5-inch heels. Yeah, they're employing those methods. As pathetic, kind of trashy and obvious as they are. And you know what? It doesn't matter. It works anyway. Some people (not all, but definitely more than I'd like) are just gone in the face of all that beauty because they just want it around. They want to scoop it out and lick it like a big, pretty ice cream cone. Who cares if Miss Batty Eyelash isn't that talented or even qualified for the job? That ass alone can be enough.

Through this soul-numbing realization, I now know that I am beginning to be lost. Not that my beauty or youth is gone. (Well, I hope not just yet anyway. I'm pretty sure I have a few hair flicks and winks left in me). But my approach to getting what I want has changed. It no longer relies so heavily on my black eyelashes and just-low-enough blouse. Oh no. I've abandoned that. For respect!

Respect goddamnit!

Ha. Yeah right. What the hell was Aretha Franklin yammering on about anyway? Just a little bit? A little bit of respect? Can I get some please?

As I inch (creep?) towards the higher numbers on the slippery slope of the 30s, I'm reminded of a conversation I had just the other day with someone very dear to me. We were talking about fading youth, fading beauty and what it means for a woman of a certain age to still be, of course, attractive, but to no longer embody that alluring Bambi-like vixen who, with a wink or a flick of her thick, shiny hair, could have pretty much any man in the room.

What did all that mean when we were young? And how does it feel to let that go?

What I think is this: there are different kinds of beauty. I told this very thing to a friend years ago when I was living in Los Angeles: there is no one kind of beautiful. There are many. We were at Swingers on Beverly having some of their really great french fries and some chicken noodle soup, likely nursing a heavy-duty black russian, no cream please, hangover, and for some reason we were discussing the wide variety of bodies of strippers. Tall, willowy, small-breasted. Petite and curvy. Voluptuous, large-breasted and child-bearing hips. All of them so different yet all of them so beautiful in their own ways.

As I see it now, as women grow older, particularly beautiful women who've been so accustomed to doors flying open, or mazes erected for their entrapment their entire lives, they realize alarmingly suddenly that those same doors quietly close and nobody longs to trap or confuse them anymore. But, the thing is, they are still beautiful. They are still so, so beautiful.

Perhaps it is an equalizer in a way. It has a sad way of knocking them off their status and into a more "real" place. A place where they have to be, well, just a good person. And for all those unaware goddesses floating around out there with so many doing their bidding, and so much made easy for them, well, they have another thing coming. It's just that it's so hard to think that will ever happen while they are so breathtaking, while the world stops for them, bows to them, and paves the way for them, often a path of fragrant flowers. And outlined by a wall of shoes, diamonds and expensive vacations. But one wretched morning, bleary-eyed and wrinkly, over a cup of average joe, it will come in the form of a rude, blaring, wake-up call that the world ceases to adore them anymore. And then they will begin to wonder, after all, if they were worth anything at all? And if they weren't, if all they were was beauty, well, they had better get around to making something worthy of their lives.

How can that, in the end, be such a bad lesson? I mean, hey, at least they got all those doors opened, and mazes erected that let them know they were wanted and special.

And shit, that wake-up call: it's also just hard to accept that nobody needs them for procreation anymore. Yeah, it's biology in part, too.

As for the weaker sex, sorry guys but it's you (come on, you know it's true, you live 7 years less than we do and you need us around in order to live longer, read the studies), you still like to have those sweet, young (and clueless) things around to remind you that you were once pretty beautiful, too.

Let's face it: it's bullshit that men get "distinguished" while women get haggy. Come ON. All I seem to see are jowly old farts trying to reclaim their youth, too. In SL 500s. In trophy wives. In cigars. Oh, and let's not forget the truckloads of Viagra and Cialis letting them know they can keep up like the stallions they once were.

It's everywhere. This getting old thing. And it is what it is.

It's a mad world.

I'm just glad we have such excellent plastic surgery available to us all.

Because no way in hell would I want to go back to being 23. I was a full-on idiot. Yeah, my hair was thicker and I didn't have to diet. But shit, I was a moron.

Ha!

Signing off....in all non-serious, oh but serious, contemplation as I head to the mall.

The MAWL. Say it just like that: THE MAWL.

I want an iPhone. Stet! (anyone listening? No, I don't want to wait forever for them to pass it off to T-Mobile or Verizon. I want it now).

And some new lingerie. La Perla damnit, not that trashy Victoria's Secret crap. I can't even find my way around in there. And those sales girls: lame! No, thank you, I do NOT need a bra fitting. I think they just want to feel me up. Ick!

At least my Christmas tree is decorated extra pretty this year.
I have my sense of humor and I'm not letting anyone take it from me.
Oh, and let's not forget: I have a pile of cat barf on my new rug waiting for me when I get home.

Life's alright.

Peace!!!!!

Love y'all! (Paula Deen makes the best fudge pie. Yep, fudge PIE).


;)