Okay, so as much as I enjoy making my self-deprecating comments, I’m actually not that unhappy with how I look. I may not be the next winning contestant on America’s Top Model, but neither am I going to be confused for Jabba the Hutt’s twin sister. I’m blessed in a lot of ways that I take for granted. I’m tall enough that I can reach allll the little Tupperware on the top shelf, but not so tall that it’s a major inconvenience. I complain about my extra pounds, but I also never have to go hungry. While my body occasionally wages war on itself (Rheumatoid Arthritis), it’s never so bad that it permanently affects my mobility. Reminding myself of what it could be like keeps me from getting to whiny.
So, now that I have convinced you that I’m not a truly terrible person, please allow me a few moments of shallowness.
My boyfriend’s sister is a model.
Yes, that’s right. A model. This is a fact that bothers me in no small way. Now, I’m sure that all the women out there understand the full implications of what I just said, but just in case, let me explain it. If Jeff had grown up with an ugly, hunchbacked, pockmarked weasel of a sister, then I wouldn’t have to do very much to impress him. All I would have to do is just bathe occasionally, and maybe change my clothes from time to time, and viola! I would be wonderful in comparison. Unfortunately, since his sister is absolutely stunning, I’m faced with a little bit of a dilemma.
I’m not really a make-up and cutesy-clothes kind of a girl. In fact, I pride myself on being low-maintenance. My life tends to have enough drama in it without me adding superficial worries to the mix. Of course, it may just be that I’ve made a virtue out of necessity as I am a complete dork when it comes to anything having to do with fashion. I’ve now resorted to actually having Jeff choose my outfits when we’re going somewhere nice. It’s pathetic. Oh, and don’t get me started on my make-up abilities. If I try to apply anything more than a simple coat of mascara, I usually end up looking like some sort of weird clown-hooker.
So, now that I’ve established my total lack of experience in this whole area, let me expound upon the inner indignity I have to suffer whenever I hang around Jeff’s Gorgeous Sister…. for anonymity’s sake, we’ll call her Dimples (because, of course, she has two big, gorgeous dimples.) She’s 5’11, 130 pounds of taut, slender perfection. Now, at 5’9, I’m not really used to feeling short, at least not next to other women. Nonetheless, every time I stand next to her, I feel myself shrinking, shrinking, shrinking…
After ten minutes of hanging out with her, I start feeling like the world’s first human pygmy goat.
Did I mention Dimples’ creamy skin, or her thick-lashed green eyes? How about her rich cascade of gleaming, chestnut hair…. or her long, long shapely legs? She also has a natural perky-yet-nicely-substantial bosom. And if that weren’t enough… she sings, and she’s a nationally-ranked ballroom dancer. Yes, that’s right. This is the woman that Jeff grew up with. I don’t care what he says… spending his formative years with that stunning beauty flowing gracefully around the house had to have some kind of impact on how he expects a woman to look. Why oh why couldn’t she be short, stubby and pockmarked? This girl was winning national awards based on her beauty and grace while I was still attempting to manage the art of walking through a doorway without clipping my shoulder on the frame— and I still haven’t gotten it down completely. For that matter, if I could manage to make it through one weekend with Jeff without accidentally elbowing him in the eye or stepping on his glasses, I think he’d break out in a chorus of Hallelujahs. Poor guy. Seriously though, I think that if anything ever happens to Jeff and I, I’m going to screen all future relationship applicants to weed out this situation from ever happening again. Eleanor Roosevelt may have said that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent, but Eleanor Roosevelt didn’t have to spend her weekends hanging around this: