I’ve been trying to work up some sympathy for these women who keep coming forward complaining that life is hard because they’re too beautiful. I felt a tear welling about an hour ago, but it was just allergies.
The latest lovely to join the line-up is a 29-year-old lingerie worker who says she was fired for being “too hot.” Her employer said she dressed inappropriately and asked her to cover up with a bathrobe. (She is now represented by Gloria Allred.)
Earlier this year a British columnist wrote about being hated because she was beautiful. Readers responded that she had overrated her beauty and was pompous. She wrote a second piece saying their negative response proved she was right – they hate her because she’s beautiful.
Last year a Citibank employee with a fondness for skin-tight clothes claimed she was fired because her great beauty was a distraction to male workers. (She, too, hired Gloria Allred who later dropped her.)
I can only imagine what a People Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful support group must be like:
“Hi, I’m beautiful.”
“Hi, I’m beautiful, too, and I’m more beautiful than you, which means you must hate me.”
“I do hate you. But do you see that blonde over there? She’s more beautiful than both of us, so I hate her most of all.”
To which the blonde says, “Yes, I am beautiful, but there is a redhead in the hallway that is a knockout. I already hate her and know the rest of you will, too.”
They argue over who is the most beautiful until everybody hates everybody else and the meeting adjourns.
They all come back next week to see if anybody inched toward ugly.
Let me tell you how average-looking women suffer. My head is the same height as the deli counter at the grocery store, often making me hard to see. I stand around waiting to ask for potato salad when a leggy blonde comes in, towers over the sample tray of crackers and cheese on top of the case (the one I would have to jump at in order to reach), and is immediately waited on.
Do I harbor ill will toward this woman simply because of this?
You bet I do.
I am entering an apartment building struggling to carry a very large box. Instinctively, I hold the door open with my foot for the man coming in behind me, assuming he has a disability, based on the fact he does not hold the door for a female. I happen to leave the apartment building at the same time this fellow does and he trips over his own two feet lunging to open the door for a gorgeous brunette carrying a pair of sunglasses.
I do not know the gorgeous brunette, but do I resent her?
Until the day I die.
Do I want to be her?
Do I want to hurt her?
Maybe. Just kidding.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what the world thinks of you, only what those who know you think of you.
I believe that to be true. Unless it is false. In that case, call Gloria Allred and she’ll sue somebody.
(Lori Borgman is a columnist, author and speaker. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org)
2012, Lori Borgman
By LORI BORGMAN