Uncomfortable

Reading about the train-wreck that is Elizabeth Wurtzel, I began thinking about my head-in-the-sand approach to my own appearance. I am reluctant to remark on it aloud. I have a hard time categorizing myself as "attractive"--partly because I am surprised to be told that I belong in this category, partly because it seems unimportant, fleeting, and a little narcissistic.

But I've begun to realize, in unpleasant ways, that it is important to some people. Even barring street harrassers. Dressed up, salesmen show me the pink alternatives to all of their products. (Crafted for the great money-spending demographic: the explicitly pubescent, sex-and-feminity-define-me demographic, aged sixteen to forty-something, secretly beyond.) In conversation men (pretending to be suave, and failing) remark on my smallness, assuming it is something I take conscious pride in; on my prettiness, assuming it is something I want acknowledged and complimented; on my effect on other men, assuming it is something I am comfortable with, and am comfortable with exploiting. In conversation women are usually not so dense. If at all, they jab in with undermining stabs: weight, eating habits, skin care, hue.

I am confused.

I want to whip out femininity only when I need it, like donning a superhero costume that divides my feminine identity from everything else. But in the comics the hero is always part and parcel of the character himself. I can't even pull this off. Hiding behind cleavage and heels is someone who doesn't even understand what her identity means.

What I do know is that sexuality and beauty are not heroic. They are uncomfortably powerful.