In the Eye

We, my husband and I, were in a crowded restaurant the other day, sitting at a table in close proximity to a mother and her two children. The two children were sitting opposite their mother. All three of them bore a striking resemblance to each other: frizzy brown hair, round freckled faces, upturned noses, decided lack of cheekbones or distinct bone structure. I bring this up only to give context to the conversation we overheard.

The mother was telling her two children that they had been blessed with an extraordinary physical beauty. The two children's faces as they listened to her were intent, so focused that their eyes bulged slightly and their soft mouths hung open. It could have been comical, but I found myself fervently hoping that they would believe their mother, that they would always believe their mother, no matter who else came along in their lives or what else was ever said to them.

How many of us really believe that we are beautiful, no matter how many times we are told or who tells us? It's always easier to believe the opposite. Back in high school, I had a bad breakup with a boy who is probably now dead (this is a long and unrelated story). I took up with another boy, who I loved (or rather, was slightly obsessed with, which in high school amounts to more or less the same thing). We were good for each other in some ways, and really, really terrible in most others. At some point in our pseudo-but-non-relationship, he told me he thought I was a seven and a half. I felt humiliated. The pain and embarrassment of it was so strong that it still rankles, ten years later, and I have never told anyone else about it.

Even now, I can't help believing it, no matter how many times I hear otherwise - from strangers, acquaintances, friends, family, my husband. I've had men I don't know offer to buy me flowers, stop me on the street to tell me I'm beautiful; once, in LA, someone got down on his knees and started singing. Once, in a restaurant, it was even a woman: she stopped at my table and asked me what it was like to be beautiful. This is weird for me; I look in the mirror and I just don't see it. That seven and a half, it hasn't left me.