The Burden of Beauty

If you have to call yourself a diva, you’re not a diva. If you have to tell people how snobby you are, you’re not a snob. If you have to talk about how pretty you are, realize that you’re probably–well–not. The rest of what I write here is going to seem highly hypocritical, but please realize that I find myself to neither be an attractive nor an unattractive person.

I just read an article entitled “People Judge Me Because I’m Pretty.” The writer went on and on about how men catcall when she walks by, some make comments, some point her out to their friends. …The poor, stupid writer doesn’t realize that all of those things are part and parcel of being a FEMALE HUMAN BEING ON PLANET EARTH. Sorry, you conceited little snot, but you included a picture of yourself with that article, and you ain’t that cute. All the stuff you mention in your article happens to every woman sometimes. Some of that stuff happens to some women more often. That crap happens to me literally every single day. You’re not special or cute or sexy or hot or foxy. You’re a girl. You’re a girl walking down the street.

When I walk on the sidewalk by myself, I put in headphones so I don’t have to hear comments like:  “Damn, girl…” When I walk by the creepy little 5’5″ man at work, I make sure my skirt is hanging as long as possible and I slouch a little so he’ll have a little less real estate to take in while he looks me up and then down. When I walk into a meeting with coworkers, I pull the collar of my dress as high as possible because the two fugly ladies get all huffy at the mere suggestion that other women have breasts. I wear oversized cardigans so I can hide my figure from, well… everyone, actually.

So shut up, you conceited brat. You’re a woman. This is what happens to ALL women. Look around. See the ugly woman with the three kids? Assuming that she’s not the adoption-obsessed Brangelina type and she isn’t producing kids in Petri dishes, someone (or sometwo or somethree) had sex with her. Really. Some dude found her bangable enough to reproduce with her. Maybe–just maybe–this guy hit on her at one point. …But you’re right, snowflake. Your self-proclaimed attractiveness is an affliction. You are so put-upon by the whole world because you’re just. so. cute. Quit kidding yourself and just shut it. You’re a woman. This is what happens to all women.


Garage (Garbage?) Sales

If you have to get rid of some of your belongings, take them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army or something. Put them on Craigslist and try to not get murdered by Bubba721833 in the Target parking lot. List them on eBay–providing you have the reputation percentage thingy that means you don’t dick people over or whatever. Don’t, however, have a garage sale.

I hate garage sales. I don’t go to them, I’m annoyed when people have them, and I have haunting childhood memories of garage sales my parents had. The best [read:  most memorable] garage sale memory I have involves a group of horrible guys saying perverted things about me in Spanish–apparently assuming that the blonde girl wouldn’t understand. (That story ends with me saying the following in Spanish and my dad getting pissed when those potential customers literally ran away:  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”)

All of that ish notwithstanding, I’m having a garage sale. I hate that I’m so excited. Here are the issues I’m facing:

  • I didn’t bother to get cash to make change (sorry, Bertha, but you’ll just have to grab another t-shirt and make it an even $10)
  • I don’t have stupid little stickers to put price tags on things (because I have absolutely no idea about garage sale pricing structures)
  • My one and only goal is to get rid of almost 50% of my closet (and it’s not so I can buy more clothes–it’s so I can find and wear the clothes I already have and like), so I probably won’t make any money at all

I’ve found clothes I’ve never worn, t-shirts from 15 years ago, legitimately cool sweatshirts that I’ll be a little sad to lose, and random items with weird memories attached. I have bottles of lotion I’ve never used, perfumes I’ve tried and hated, and body sprays… why the hell would a person own so many body sprays?! Can I even sell that stuff at a garage sale?
I’m looking forward to sitting on a camp chair, drinking diet soda, and having people give me cash for the crap I’d take to Goodwill–if Goodwill was ever open outside of normal business hours. I’m pretty sure it won’t be that much fun, but if I make enough money to buy a decent pizza, I think I’ll be cool with it.