I have been accused in the comments of another's blog of being falsely unaware of male beauty. While it is true that I rarely notice the lovely physical points of my own sex, there is one notable exception:
Now, maybe it comes of spending hundreds of hours in front of the mirror making faces*, or maybe it's objectively delightful, or maybe I'm blinded by optimistic self-love, but I think I have a very nice face, thank you.
Of course, any of you may feel free to disagree with me, and by no means am I suggesting you all should call me Adonis and fall at my feet. Just wanted to say that I am happy with me.
Having said that, I do worry that there is something unhealthy or unrighteous or prideful about this.
I worry because, for instance, yesterday, buying French bread and ice cream, the fellow behind me had a face covered with a birthmark or a burn scar or something. I don't mean to say he was ugly, no, but his complexion isn't going to put him on the cover of GQ.
I didn't think, "Hoo! Glad that's not me!" but I have had, oh, three? bitty panic attacks in my life where I worried that something would happen and I would become a little less pretty.
In theory, I think physical appearance is about as meaningful as the length of my appendix, but underneath that conscious thought, somewhere deeper and more primitive, I must feel a need to be attractive. I never worry about it because I look terrific and it would take an ax removing my nose and jaw to get me to rethink that opinion--however....
Has anyone read Chuck Palahniuk's "Invisible Monsters"?
I wonder if we are addicted to our beauty.