"Ya Gotta Be Pretty . . . ."

Preface: I'm getting no comments on anything I write; therefore, I believe that no one is reading my bouts of inner insight. So I feel I can safely write this - "blog it" so to speak - without a lot of backlash. It's something that's been rolling around in my subconscious for decades and I've got to get it out. So, here goes . . .

"Ya gotta be pretty. . ." I never actually heard those words but what I did hear gave me that value, unfortunate as it was, for my development.

What I heard was a comment to my father by one of his "friends." I must have been around 12 or so - old enough to know he wasn't talking about me and old enough for it to have affected me for the next 45+ years. Pop's friend said, "Well, Frank, at least you have one pretty daughter." It wasn't the remark that hurt as much as my father's silence.

And so I've discovered that if you want to get anywhere in this world, first you have to look good. First impressions are so important. I would never be able to dazzle anyone with my wit and/or intellect in the first few seconds - the time it takes to look at someone and make a judgment-call. So, strike one for me. I've never been pretty and will never be pretty - especially now that I'm getting older.

Being pretty means being thin, slender, a good body and especially good boobs - not trying to be crass here - just truthful. I'm a rapidly aging fat woman. I have more of everything and everything is going south. Strike two for me.

Being pretty means dressing well even on a tight budget. I can't find separates that fit me top and bottom (I'm out of proportion) and dresses that fit upstairs, seem to bag and hang on me downstairs. I wear bagging jeans because my hips and legs are out of proportion to my waist - so in order to get jeans/pants to fit my waist . . . well, you get the picture. On top of that (pun intended) my belly is quickly overtaking my boobs. Sure I could do sit-ups . . .did you read the post about my back pain? Exercising for sculpting is no longer an option - not even if I had a steel rod inserted up my spine.

So here I am - a fat, aging woman, out of shape and alone.

No one is going to stop to help me if I have a flat tire. No one holds the door open for me and smiles. No one is going to buy me a drink just to get to know me. The first two may happen if I let my hair go grey and I remind them of their gramma - but never the third one.

See: Ya gotta be pretty. I see it everyday at work where our cute, young receptionist gets away with things I couldn't at her age - well, of course, at her age I was a fat nurse working full-time and had a year old. My ex told me he married me because he "didn't have anything else to do that day." See? Ya gotta be pretty.

Still not convinced?
When was the last time you saw an ugly woman driving a sports car? An ugly man, yes. An ugly woman, no. We know better than to drive a sexy car . . .

Ya gotta be pretty.