This morning I awoke, crying into my pillow. I guess you deserve the back-story, so I’ll give it to you. Last night before I went to sleep, I was thinking about the poor, unfortunate-looking people of the world, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror next to my bed and I noticed just how amazingly long my eyelashes are. Usually, my first reaction is to empathize with those sad souls from the third world nations, because they don’t yet have the correct infrastructure established to maintain beauty. Their diets, for example, don’t usually support beauty: duck embryos and goat parts aren’t so great for the skin and they make one’s breath stinky, which makes one unattractive. What can they do? Change their diets? They’re poor! They eat whatever they can. Can all of those inland rice farmers buy blenders to make a Super Beauty Food kefir and sunflower sprout smoothie? In African famine lands can they even GROW the cucumbers and avocados they’d need for a really great facial peel?
But last night it wasn’t only about the third-world people. They’ve got much bigger miseries to sort out first before they can focus on beauty. There are people in our own backyards – even walking along Main St. USA – who are suffering from being unattractive. And as a nation we’re so desensitized to it. Think about all of those so-called “pretty boys” you’ve seen, in their Abercrombie mesh shirts, standing in front of the clubs waiting to get in like a bunch of poseurs. Why are they waiting in line? Seeing those sad young men waiting to be validated is like walking through the intensive care unit of a general hospital. The only difference is that these boys don’t know that they’re sick and afflicted. One of the first things a well-trained doorman will do is check the eyelashes. What do the Abercrombie boys’ eyelashes look like?
If they were genuinely handsome, their upper row of lashes would be thick and luxurious. Are they? What about the bottom row? See, that’s the catch, even when guys are lucky to have a wonderful upper row of lashes, the bottom row usually suffers. My lashes are full on both the top and the bottom and when I throw on some guyliner and a little mascara, regular people just stare at me with their jaws dropped because I’m like a walking Edward Hopper canvas — lonely and beautiful. But it’s not fair that regular people get knocked out of the way and ignored as a result. I’m down-to-earth, so I can say this. Anyway, I don’t wear a whole lot of eye makeup lately for this very reason. That would be gloating. Me in heavy eye-makeup is like eating a 1 ½ inch thick pepper crust ribeye steak with a cognac cream sauce in front of an Ethiopian.
I’ve never waited in line at a club in my life because I’m just on a whole other level. I tell myself that it’s not a BETTER level, just a DIFFERENT level, but that REALLY makes me want to cry because I know it’s not true and and that I’m just creating lies to force myself to ignore the obvious. I *am* on a better level because I’m handsome, and I bear this enormous burden of guilt because of it. That was the sad thought process going through my mind last night as I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke this morning, wouldn’t you know that my pillow was covered in eye makeup and I felt so horrible and guilty that I cried again until lunch.
I don’t know what to do.
[c] 2008 Russ of America
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