Beautiful

A couple of months ago, a good friend tagged me in one of those, "Do this and tag others" Facebook assignments.  I was suppose to find 5 pictures of myself when I felt beautiful, post them, and tag friends so they'd do the same.  I think the concept was supposed to be about feeling good about yourself and passing the feeling-good-about-yourself feeling along.  That's a lovely idea.  People should feel good about themselves.  It's mentally healthy.  I didn't participate in the event, though.  I don't recall a time I've ever felt beautiful.  

I'm not sharing this fact as a means of fishing for people to tell me that I'm beautiful.  Not to be rude but what anyone happens to think of my looks is trivial to me.  I look like me.  The me I got in the genetic lottery; something I had no control over either way.  Some days, I spend more time on my appearance than other days, but by and large the overall look is pretty consistent.  It's me.  If I post a picture of myself on social media, it's either because think my appearance is in line with the idea of what I think I look like, or it's better than that idea.  Rest assured that for every photo posted there's a couple of hundred other photos of me that will never see the light of day.  That's vanity.  I'm getting old and thus more ego-dependent on ambient light.  Meh.  At the end of the day, both the best and worst photos of me look remarkably similar; it's only a matter of degrees.

But feeling beautiful is another kettle of fish, isn't it?

I read a lot of the "feeling beautiful" posts from friends and acquaintances in an attempt to get an understanding of the assignment.  Most listed their feeling-beautiful-feelings in relationship to their children, husbands or families.  Some posted pictures of their dramatic weight loss or other personal accomplishment stories.  Many posted pictures of their wedding days.  All were lovely photos and I thought that the women looked beautiful in them. 

But me?  Feeling beautiful?  Sorry.  Still not ringing a bell.  I adore my children but they don't make me feel beautiful.  Fortunate?  Proud?  Grateful?  Happy?  Blessed?  Yes, to all of the above feelings.  Beautiful?  No.  I'm just not seeing a connection there.  And while I can say that I think looked pretty on my wedding day back in 1990, I don't recall feeling beautiful.  I felt nervous.  And in love.  It was a good hair day, though.  I do remember feeling happy about that.  

I can honestly say no man has ever made me feel beautiful because they're in a romantic relationship with me.  I've felt loved and cherished and appreciated and lusted after and a bunch of other things but, beautiful?  No.  The beauty of me (whatever the hell the definition of that intangible quality is) is something I'm bringing to the table.

Really, sit down.  I got this.


I thought I'm supposed to take some pride in my appearance as a sort of...I don't know...social agreement; like bathing regularly and not losing my temper whenever I feel like it. 


I ran a half marathon felt proud of the accomplishment.  I also felt like I had been beaten with bat. 

Beauty wasn't on my radar that day.

I lost 15 pounds and looked stronger and visually better than I do now, having gained 8 of the pounds back.  Did I feel beautiful?  Not really.  I felt like me.  Just stronger and slightly thinner.

I wonder if I'm missing a feminine something that could explain this failure at feeling beautiful thing.  I say, "feminine something" because I don't recall seeing a single man participating in this event.  I don't think most men have "feeling beautiful" moments.  Men have kids, spouses, wedding days, accomplishments, and dramatic weight loss stories, too.  

Maybe I can chalk it up to being raised with boys.

Maybe I'm not paying enough attention. 

Maybe it matters.

Maybe it doesn't. 

At all.