Why I’m Glad I’m Not A 10
The Perks of Being Average
My parents gave me a lot of things — a wonderful childhood, memorable vacations and solid Midwestern values, to name a few. One thing they didn’t give me was stunning beauty. This isn’t a pity party; just an honest assessment.
At 34, I can honestly say my self-image is the best it’s ever been, and I’d rate myself a 6. (That’s in a dimly-lit bar, after a lot of effort.)
You might be wondering, “Why even bring up something so shallow and insignificant?”
Of course, it shouldn’t matter what I look like or what anyone else looks like. Of course, beauty is subjective and cultural in many ways—yet there are some universally-recognized standards like facial symmetry and good skin. I’d love to be able to tell you that I’ve always had the confidence not to care, or that having boys bark at me as a 12-year-old girl didn’t affect the way I felt about myself well into adulthood. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
I share this story now only because it’s taken most of my adult life to come to terms with who I am—a woman who works hard to “pass” for average — and actually embrace it.
