I don't like to be called beautiful
I do not see myself as beautiful. And not because of all of the stereotypical negative thoughts that plague a lady's brain, although I could use some work with those too. But ever since I was young, what I aspired to be was smart. Growing up in Russia, it was not a common thing to find a woman who thinks that way. While I was a child, the country was a mess. The government was corrupt, and so was the police force. For a man, the only way to succeed was to get an excellent education and leave the country to work somewhere else. For a woman, to find a man who can take you elsewhere. My mom told me that when she was young, she would not dare step out of the house without wearing heels and clothes that showed off her body. That was her perceived way out until she took matters into her own hands and came to the US. But that's a different story.
At a tender young age of 6, I frustrated my grandparents because I took apart the family VCR. And this was in Russia. At that time, a VCR was a BIG. DEAL. Whatever I did, I fixed the clicking noise the machine made when it worked. I may not be alive today, writing this story of mine, if I had not somehow put back together the VCR again. But I did not know that at the time, I was just exploring. I was making friends with the screws, the intricate mechanisms. I was exploring technology, and through it, I was exploring myself. Figuring out which pieces of my life fit where as I'm trying to assemble the video player. It was a glorious escape.
In middle school, I knew I wanted to work with technology. I was in the Robotics club and taking high-school level math. I excelled in it all. And through all the studying and reading, my biggest solace was being alone. There is a shed in my mom's backyard that I used to crawl on top of and read a book, concealed to everyone except an enormous lilac bush and a Magnolia tree overhead for shade. The overwhelming scents would surround me in the sweet summer bliss as I would lay back and lose myself in yet another novel or book about space.
I loved reading about space. My book shelf is full of books about the universe, physics and the like. I dreamt of becoming an Aerospace Engineer and an officer in the Navy, hoping that with enough flight hours I could one day be an astronaut. I wanted to escape the world I know, and experience the world above and beyond us firsthand. I wanted to work in a world that makes sense due to physics, not surrounded by people who seem hellbent on killing each other and the politics of it all.
I spent a lot of my childhood thinking everyone else had a life like mine and took their studies seriously. To find out otherwise was a tad disappointing but did raise my ego. I felt like I was smart, I was strong, and anything the world could throw at me I could handle. I never felt popular or wanted at that time, though, and as a curious person, I tried to find the reason why that was.
Once I started paying attention, I encountered the allure of beautiful girls. They seamlessly went through their day, getting everything they want, lives simple and lightweight. Not a care in the world. When they were correct, they were brilliantly right. When they were wrong, their wrongness was cute and forgivable. They got anything they want, anyone they want, whenever they want it.
That took a toll on my ego. I have always wanted for my life to be simpler. A difficult childhood and my perfectionism did not allow for an easy life. Anything I did, I did 110%. How dare they waltz around like they own the place and why do these boys have their jaws on the floor? What do they have that I don't?
Then I looked in the mirror.
I was awkwardly tall. At that age, most boys were shorter than I was. My hair was in a messy ponytail and I dressed like I just got out of bed. Sweats and a T-shirt for me, please. I was dressed appropriately for wrestling practice (really, I was on the team. Does it surprise you I used to enjoy beating boys?), but I was so not ready to try to get the attention of those same guys.
Through all of this, I was trying to learn how to smile. I have had braces for most of my adolescent life, and I was only capable of an awkward closed-mouth smile in those rare cases that I felt legitimate joy. The fact that my little sister called me horseface when I got them off didn't help my confidence either.
So in a desperate attempt to find someone to connect to, even a close friend, I began to work on myself. Through most of high school I still wore my athletic clothing and my ponytail, but I became funny. I found what gives me joy and I found myself smiling the most when I made someone else smile. That got me friends and connections. And I felt like I had to be funny and smart or else no one will stick around. Beautiful women aren't funny -unless they think they're ugly- because they don't have to be. People would like them either way. I had to make people like me in other ways so I either impressed them with my intelligence or made them laugh.
That didn't get me many dates. A couple bites but no catch.
Then I met this dude. Six foot five, really buff, ridiculously handsome. I did not know what to say to him. He was so pretty.
We met playing video games.
He said he liked astronomy.
He likes astronomy and physics, guys. And I just beat him at a FPS.
So we started talking and went to the planetarium (of course) for one of our first dates. And I got to hold his hand. And tell him how pretty he is, although he preferred a different term. And he wanted me. And we're getting married in two years.
But not knowing that then, I really drastically changed how I look. I started wearing my hair down (what's a blow dryer?). I put on makeup (you mean bronzer doesn't go all over your face?). I even started wearing heels (those I was a natural at, surprisingly. Must be genetics). And he started calling me beautiful, but I only felt beautiful when I helped him with his math homework or discussed a book we both read or while we were just laying down together,existing at the same moment on the same bed, just the two of us.
I guess my definition of beauty is different from the superficial definition most people think of. My brain is beautiful. When I am 80, the hot chicks will look just as wrinkly and shriveled up as I will, only I'll be running circles around them mentally (not too hard though, don't want to break a hip). Looks come with youth, but beauty (to me) lasts.
And that's why I don't like being called beautiful without people knowing this.
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