Now you know

Ugh, work politics, life politics, the politics of beauty and love and friendship – my insides cannot conform, even when I ask nicely.

That cluster bomb Beauty sent bits of irritating shrapnel into the meat of my life at a very early age. I think it operates on the same principles as intelligence. When I was young, my parents didn’t like me much. As far as my underdeveloped rationale could discern, it was because I was lacking in brains and beauty.

The school system only confirmed my hypothesis – children did their best to rub salt into the gaping wound that was me while teachers leant a hand by relegating my desk to ever-secluded areas of the classroom. That sense of being singled-out and scrutinized never dissipated.

The Cult of Beauty will forever reign, and although most people celebrate the way in which nearly every single person on earth has a different and equal claim on some of its finest wares, to me it only illustrates the many ways in which a person can fail.

All you have to do is fall short of the mark. Pick a mark, any mark. That one over there with the bigger lips, browner hair, nicer-shaped eyes, better (some) cleavage will do. &etfuckingcetera

University gave me all the free-will necessary to grapple with and triumph over the problem of intelligence. But I haven’t yet found an arena in which to conquer the ever-shifting face of vanity. Not outside and not in.

Have you ever looked at another person and thought, “Gosh, if I only looked like her, my life would be sorted,” even though you know that you’re probably that person for at least one other person on the planet? I have. And you know, I still believe it most days.

I’m not supposed to be thinking these things, given my age and education. I’m supposed to rise above them. Is there a pill?

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