No Pretty, Please, October 27th

I was in the park the other day with Phyllis doing our miles. I can’t remember what we were talking about specifically but she mentioned a conversation to me between good friends Barbra Streisand and Lauren Bacall. Apparently Babs recently asked Laur, “What was it like being pretty?” And Lauren replied, “It was wonderful!” I could sort of imagine Lauren having a twirly girl moment just then where she maybe spun around in a gorgeous gown with her eyes on the sky remembering all the love and devotion she’s felt from the world. And I felt so deeply for Barbra having never felt pretty, feeling like she’s missed out, and wanting to know that adoration. Meanwhile she is an award-winning actress with one of the most recognizably iconic musical voices of all time!

My personal experience with pretty has been vastly different from Lauren’s. Being called pretty was never fun for me. I never felt pretty like Laur did, and no, I’m not saying that under any circumstances I look like her or have that dreamy appeal. I’m saying that she enjoyed the winks and stares and whispers, and I rarely have enjoyed physical compliments of any kind. In my formative years, I grew up looking extraordinarily dork-like with glasses to correct my overt stigmatism and braces to correct my obtuse overbite. When contacts replaced the Coke bottom lenses and straightness finally stood where buckness once ruled, I guess my appearance transformed. But the girl beneath looking better always wanted more than a compliment on her outward appearance– she looked for validation. And that was never rooted in a “you’re so pretty” comment that faded the minute it escaped the giver’s lips.

I’m not saying that I don’t always try to look my best. I dress to express my individuality– no blue suits and sensible shoes for this gal! Tasteful makeup. Hair, nails, brows, and groomed discretely. I never tried to fit in, but I certainly didn’t want to stand out too much either. And I don’t mind if you love my shoes or obsess about a scarf I’m wearing or marvel at a shiny bauble I’m sporting. But I’d so much rather be complimented on my choice of the item rather than on myself. Having style is much more significant than looking good in just that instance.

I’m not fishing for compliments, but if you’re determined to deliver one that gets through my modestly immune Teflon shell, by all means say that you think I’m a good writer! That you found a post I’ve written relatable. Or that you bought my novel and thought at least three stories were hilarious! Or that you read a blog about my family and it made you emotional. You could always let me know how impressed you are with my son! I beam with pride when people think he’s super creative or smart or generous. (He is all of those and more of course. And HUGE CONGRATS to that guy who just landed his first out of college job yesterday!! GO MATTY!!!!) But for me, no pretty please.