Pondering "Pretty"

In the past few days, both Jennifer and Anno have both discussed an issue that has been swirling around the back of my mind, even in the midst of the long list of logistics that are firmly planted there these days.

"Pretty."

It's a word that elicits a visceral reaction from any female (or male, for that matter) over the age of three and a half. These days, it's a word that makes me want to hide. It's a word that makes me feel apologetic, as if to say, "I used to be pretty; I apologize for..."

For what?

For getting old? For not clinging to "pretty" for dear life? For not gracefully bringing "pretty" into my fifties with me, like Michelle Pfeiffer and Christy Brinkley have been able to do? For being willing to bid farewell to "pretty" in favor of, perhaps, "creative" or "smart" or "loving"? (Which really aren't such shabby traits, are they?)

Let's just get one thing straight right here: I'm not willing. I liked "pretty"! It was protective and secure. It gave me confidence that I took completely for granted, a confidence that I now see in my (very pretty) daughters. When "pretty" smiles, the world smiles back. That's just the way it is. Right or wrong, "pretty" works. The world is just a slightly friendlier (and easier) place when you have the pretty thing going.

When I was my girls' age, I did exactly what they do now: I surveyed myself in the mirror and then judged myself, accepting some physical traits and rejecting others. I accept my tiny waist, I'd proclaim silently to myself, but I reject my thighs. Or, eyes OK today... bad hair day. I was my own worst enemy and there was NO way I could appreciate then what I so miss now -- simple, pure, unadulterated, unaltered pretty.

The thing is, "pretty" isn't real. It's a construct manufactured by society and media and giggly 5th grade grrrrls (and 6th grade boys) who are the self-proclaimed judges of "pretty enough?" and who get under our skin and never, ever leave. They're still there as I approach 51 -- and these days, instead of nodding in approval, they're insisting that I'm old and that I "let myself go," and oh-my-god-don't-even-try-be-sexy!

I want to fight them, really I do. But there's that double-wammy that us 50-year-olds are dealt: menopause wreaks havoc on pretty. And on sexy. Have I approached that dig-deep-to-find-inner-pretty-and-inner-sexy stage? And what the hell does that mean, anyway? Isn't it just another way of saying, Uh, lady... you ain't got the pretty thing goin' no more... better find sumpin' else"?

How cruel!

If you know my work as Executive Producer of FUEL, which addresses girls' self-esteem, body image and the media, you're probably shocked at my lack of self-esteem in the "pretty" department, probably disappointed that I haven't heeded my own message of learn to love the YOU who you are. But let's be honest -- we all aspire to be pretty, and we all mourn its eventual demise. Given the choice, I'd like to be creative, smart, loving AND pretty.

For me, the self-esteem (or rather, lack thereof) issue is loudest around things I DO have control of, but choose not to exercise that control... with exercise being the operative word. I know that I'd feel a lot better about myself if I'd move more than I do. I know that exercise is critical to my health as well as to my emotional well-being. And yet, for some reason that I'm sure is deeply psychologically poignant, I choose not to get enough exercise.

So if I were smart and logical and confident about this whole issue (is any woman smart about this issue?!), I'd let go of the "pretty" part of it and focus on the "healthy" part of it. I know that. If I would just get my butt out of this chair and move, the "pretty" feeling might even come back. And I wouldn't mind that one bit, because really, way deep inside (and right out here on the surface), I'm still a 5th grade girl, still wanting to get the attention of the popular 5th grade girls... and the ever-so-cool 6th grade boys.