Pretty People and Me

You know who they are when you see them. They’re the people that other people look at, that you sometimes ask where they did their hair or got their clothes from, the people who look good and are attractive to the opposite sex (and in some cases the same sex). The pretty people.

My sisters are pretty people. The older has modelled and the younger is going to. And people tell them they’re beautiful, both of them. “You look like a dancer. You have such graceful posture.” “You’re so gorgeous!” “I wish I looked like you.” “You have such a beautiful face.”

And they tell me, too. “Your sister is so beautiful.” “Your sister is so elegant.” “I’ve never seen anyone who dresses as well as your sister. Where does she shop?” “I wish I had your sister’s skin.” “I wish I had your sister’s hair.” “I wish your sister was my teacher.” “Your sister is sexy.” “Your sister is the most beautiful woman in the world.” That last one married the sister in question, though, so it’s possibly a biased statement.

Can I be proud of this? Absolutely. I am happy for my sisters that they are attractive and beautiful. It makes life much easier for them, and it makes them happy when people compliment them.

But sometimes, I can’t help but feel just the tiniest, weeniest pangs of overwhelming jealousy. Because them? They’re beautiful.

Whereas me, the best compliment I ever got from a guy was, “I don’t think you’re fat.”

No, seriously. It was a security guard outside a bank that said it, when he saw me walking to my car, which has a bumper sticker from when I was forty pounds heavier (hard to imagine, I know, but I have been). He meant it, and he looked at me like I was attractive.

That’s honestly the best I ever got. Of the people I’ve dated, few and far between, I never even got a “You look good” or a “That’s a nice dress/hairstyle.” Nothing. Trust me, it would be one of my most precious memories if I had.

Back when I looked like this, that is to say, fourteen or fifteen, I asked a boy out. Yes, I did, go me, I had the courage to do that then. And he didn’t come. I got stood up for a ball game. He was one of my brother’s friends, and when I asked my brother what was wrong with me, why he didn’t come, guess what the answer was? “Well, maybe if you were less heavy, he’d go out with you.”

I look at the photo now, and I do not think I was excessively heavy at the time. In fact, pardon the vanity, I think I was beautiful then.

But also at that time, my nickname in my family was “Fat Robin.” Why did I have to eat so much, why couldn’t I be skinny like my sisters? Lisa, Lisa, the big fat pizza. You eat too much dessert, that’s why you’re fat. You already had enough, you don’t need seconds. He got more because he isn’t fat. Sure, go ahead and eat that, if you really think you can afford the calories. I’m really shocked, Liz, that you eat so much when you look the way you do.

So I ate less. And less, and less, and even less. From the time I was fifteen to the time I was twenty, I was starving nearly all the time. And I stayed the same weight, and then, I started gaining weight. And then I got two metabolic disorders diagnosed, but still it’s the same old Liz eats like a pig, that’s why she’s fat. So then I did start eating until I didn’t feel like I was starving, and I gained astronomical amounts of weight.

Now I’m down forty from my heaviest and still losing weight. But I haven’t got insurance, and so I have only one of the meds I need, and thus, if I eat more than about 1200 calories a day, I gain weight. That’s about half of what people my age and height are supposed to require. And I have to eat even less to lose weight.

I’d have to say I’m still not one of the pretty people, and guys certainly aren’t going to be noticing me any time soon.

But come on, Liz. You can’t really be serious that no one ever said you were beautiful? I never said that. Three people have said I’m beautiful. Yeah, I counted.

My older sister has said I’m beautiful. But, since that same older sister has said before that she doesn’t want people to know we’re sisters, because I am 1) too fat, 2) scarred on my face and 3) too unfeminine, adding up to a grand 4) too ugly, I must doubt the sincerity of the statement.

My younger sister has said I’m beautiful. I think she means it, but then again, she says it quite a lot. It almost seems a case of “The lady doth protest too much, methinks” in the original affirming sense of protest. Maybe if she didn’t insist that I’m more beautiful than people that look like Helen Hunt and Hilary Swank, I might have an easier time believing. Maybe if she was like my mum, and said “You could be beautiful,” I’d believe. Or maybe my self-doubt is just pathetically all-consuming and I should take what she says at face value.

And my best friend has said I’m beautiful. It’s much easier for me to believe what she says, because she says I’m not classically beautiful, but I have a different kind of beauty. Is it pathetic to hope she really thinks that?

But those three people, that’s the extent of those willing to say I’m beautiful. Am I just the slightest bit bitter and defensive about the way I look? You bet your ass I am. Deal with it, is all I can say, because it isn’t going to change in the foreseeable future.

As a nice, polite closer: If anyone who knows me reads this and thinks I’m whining, fuck you too. I let you crap on me for years and years without arguing. You can listen to a little complaining now, or you can go have a seat on Judas’ chair.