It was later at night, I'd gotten home from work early since it'd been a slow night and I wasn't needed on the floor any longer ( I'm a bartender/server). Feeling discouraged and depressed, I went home, as I do almost every night I'm cut early. I curled up on my chair in my living room, turned my TV on to HGTV (I'm an avid fan) and then stared into space for a while. A friend of mine hit me up, asking how my day was. I gave my standard reply of "okay" and waited for the usual question everyone always responds with. It came. "just okay?". I was immediately irritated, for several reasons.
One, lately everything seems so predictable to me that I even knew what that text would say before I had even read it. Two, why, when I say 'okay' do people feel the need to question my certainty? I said 'okay' because I was 'okay'. If I was absolutely freaking grand I would have stated so with much enthusiasm. If I was completely miserable, which I was not, then I would have grudgingly admitted so. I was okay. He seemed to think I was mistaken (along with the other ten or so people that responded exactly like he did) and told me I must be better than just 'ok', to which I replied that no, I'd had just a normal day. Then it happened. He insinuated that I had to have had a much better day than I had stated because I have "fantastic boobs". As if having a fantastic rack (which yes, thank you, it is) guarantees that I have wonderful days all the time or at least nothing so bad could happen that my "fantastic boobs" couldn't brighten instantly.
Really? Really! I was instantly pissed off. My boobs, kind sir, did not fix the fact that I went home having worked about three hours less than I was hoping, and having made not even a fourth of my usual tips, due to almost no one venturing out that night (mainly because of the crappy weather that has decided to stay a while). Perhaps if I was an Exotic Dancer my boobs would've made a difference, however I sincerely doubt that considering the location of the town in which I call home at this time. Even if I was a stripper, that doesn't give you the right to assume that my breasts possess such wonderful magical powers as allowing me to skip through life. If it did, I wouldn't have worked nearly so hard in college. Honestly, I wouldn't have gone to college at all-because the debt I now have will, most likely, be hanging over my head the rest of my life. I'd be super rich, living my dream life with a nice house on the beach - you get it. I guess my boobs haven't gotten the memo yet because I'm nowhere near any of those things being a remote possibility at this point.
That short conversation lead me into remembering other conversations where people assumed I have a perfect life because of my appearance (which I really cannot take much credit for. God decided what I'd look like and I've left myself alone). At a previous job I admitted to someone that I suffer from depression, and over the past few years my depression has increased. At one point, I couldn't find a reason to get out of bed other than avoiding my dog peeing all over my apartment. Honestly even that almost didn't seem worth facing another day. They were surprised and told me so. They said they couldn't imagine someone as pretty as me being depressed.
When did being pleasing to the eye mean that people wouldn't have hardships? When did the promise that as long as you're beautiful you'll never have a bad day, or a bad month, or even a bad year happen? I never got that contract. This time last year I was working four jobs and barely even making ends meet and it's still a struggle. I pray every day when I go to work that my car will start. Yesterday the heat and defrost quit working. I had to stop halfway to work to get a towel to wipe off my windows so I could see to finish the drive. I'm not complaining, my car got me to work and that was all I needed. I see people walking to work in the snow and I'm so thankful that my car still runs.
I know several people who have similar stories. People have told them they're too pretty to have problems, or too beautiful to be depressed or unhappy. Outside of plastic surgery, we have no control over how we look. Sure, we've learned how to enhance our appearances (make up), even capitalize on it, and take pride in ourselves (we don't show up to work disheveled and unkempt), but that doesn't mean as much as society has come to believe. I don't "look" depressed because showing up to work with my hair uncombed, un-showered, and my clothes wrinkled and reeking of beer from working the bar a week ago, is completely unacceptable and instant cause for suspension or being fired. Despite never feeling like it, millions of people manage to pull themselves together long enough to be in public. The sad thing is that we're all wearing masks and few people care enough to see what's behind it. Stop assuming based on appearance and stop speaking without considering the fact that you might be about to say something ignorant.
Maybe I'm overreacting but this is my place to rant and rave when I feel the need and you're all free to disagree if you want to. If you're the guy whom I had that wonderful conversation about my boobs with, I know you meant well, and thank you for that backwards compliment. I don't recommend saying anything like it that to another woman, but then maybe another woman won't mind. And if my boobs ever do develop the power to let me skip through life, I'll be sure to let you know.
In the mean time, my friends, please wander on.
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