A revelation

It was when I was peeling off my 2nd Spanx girdle in the bathroom when it dawned on me. 

We go to painstaking efforts to meet the beauty standards of others, as part of a misguided attempt to finally gain the respect and friendship of people who have never given us the time of day.  We spend hours in the bathroom putting weird goopy stuff in our hair just so we can present ourselves as the kind of person we used to want to be: trendy, ultra-thin, glamorous, trivial.  We knock down shot after shot of Jack Daniels in hopes that it will give us the courage to strike up conversation interesting enough to not be passed over…again.

Perhaps it would be one thing if all these painstaking efforts were done in the name of friendship.  I could understand why someone might choose to look glamorous and sexy if they were going out with a group of friends or something.  But it was when I was sitting at the table with my childhood friends, being completely ignored, that something else dawned on me.

I didn’t want their friendship anymore.  Not if I felt like I had to practically torture myself by doubling up on girdles, worrying about whether my dress was sexy as everyone else’s, and going through the emotional agony of feeling like if I didn’t do these things, then I wouldn’t be worthy of their “esteemed” company.  I’m no longer interested in chasing friendship that doesn’t want to be caught.  I’ve grown out of the middle school/high school snooty exclusivism.  I’m done putting myself in a position where I’m rejected by people I don’t particularly care about anymore. 
I have plenty of close friends at Cornell–people who actually want to spend time with me, no matter what I look like, no matter what my reputation is, no matter what I weigh, no matter how many slightly awkward moments in conversation there may be. 

For me, friendship is about choice, among other things.  You shouldn’t feel like you absolutely must look or act a certain way for your “friends” to accept you.  Sure, sometimes I like to dress up to go out with the girls, but that is a choice only I can make.  My friends don’t treat me any differently if I choose to hang out with them wearing an old stained hoodie and jeans.  A friend respects the choices I make, whether it be choices in fashion, appearance, reputation, relationships, sex, and morality.  And a friend cares enough to question me when I stray from my identity.

So what is the relationship between friendship and beauty? Has anyone else noticed how beauty is absolutely relative? Like, when you meet an average looking person and get to know them and love them, it’s completely impossible to see them as anything other than stunningly gorgeous? And when you meet someone who looks like they stepped right out of Playboy and they turn out to be horribly fake and stuck-up, their good looks quickly deteriorate?

I’ve learned that the sexiest people are always the kindest, most loyal, most fun, most honest people.
Friendship makes you pretty.