Inside Out

“It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Bull. Shit.

I’m not saying that the inside doesn’t count, but I’m here to tell you that the outside counts, too. And just as much, if not more so.

A confession: one of my favorite stories about myself is one I heard just before I was married. Some of my mother’s closest friends held a dinner party for me and my bridesmaids–I think there might have been eight of us there total. Anyway, our long-time neighbor related a story about having run into my ballet teacher at an event years prior, around the time I graduated high school, and reported that she said to her, of me, “I remember the day her mother first brought her to my dance school-I remember thinking to myself that she was absolutely the single most beautiful child I had ever seen–all eyes and that long black hair--she took my breath away.”

I guess it’s pretty shallow of me to hold onto that–I mean, we’re not talking about anything except outward appearances, and she probably said equally flattering things about many of her students over the years. Plus, it’s no great achievement to be cute when you’re only seven years old. But it DOES mean a lot to me, because as one of those girls who grew up to become the victim of overzealous puberty, genetics, and my own apathy that conspired to keep me short & fat for the remainder of my life (I learned the truth at seventeen/that love was meant for beauty queens....Janis Ian? Anyone??), it’s the one and only moment I know of in my entire life, with any certainty, that someone looked at me and saw pure BEAUTY. That I took someone’s breath away...that I inspired some kind of aesthetic awe.

There are beautiful people who go through life doing nothing but that, and I imagine that their complaint is that people ONLY see the outside, and don’t fully appreciate what’s going on inside. And in a way, I guess that can be just as painful a burden. But since I have no point of reference for that particular disadvantage...

The truth is that it ALL matters–the inside AND the outside. For what am I but what I am, in my entirety? My thoughts might ramble around in my mind, and those I commit to paper or voice might continue to tumble out into the ether, and might, in and of themselves, be meaningful or inspirational or even beautiful to others. But once those words leave the confines of my own body, they aren’t ME. They are shadows left behind. They can’t enjoy the feelings they engender–they never see the nods of agreement or hear the sighs of kindred spirits, nor do I. You might get a comment or two on a blog, and that’s something, for sure. But, again, that’s a disembodied kind of connection. I am CONNECTED to MYSELF. Everything I experience, my thoughts, my joys, my pains–they are all manifestations of this living, physical organism. If there is an afterlife, and I suddenly find myself on some astral plain as nothing but a collection of thoughts and feelings, then I’ll believe that the inside counts for more. But until then, I am trapped and at the mercy of what I, as a physical being, am able to experience, and those experiences are dictated and limited by what I look like.

I don’t feel the need to be gorgeous or perfect–I’d just really like to be “average.” You might think it’s a pretty sad state of affairs when your biggest dream is to be physically “average,” but “average” people, in my opinion, have the advantage of being able to participate in the widest range of experiences--social, physical, intellectual, spiritual, etc. When you’re super-beautiful, people can often objectify you and make assumptions about your intelligence, or, even if your intelligence is readily appreciated, it’s generally always secondary to your beauty. They also tend to assume that if you’re beautiful on the outside, that you’re also beautiful on the inside. However, when you’re NOT attractive on the outside, you don’t necessarily get any thoughts directed your way beyond that. People don’t look at an ugly person and assume they’re intelligent and/or beautiful on the inside–quite the opposite, usually. So there really IS more of a disadvantage to NOT being beautiful.

Which brings me back to the average Joe. Average Joe has far more freedom to create himself and his experiences. He’s a blank page on which we are free to project our basic assumptions of human potential and goodness. He’s the proverbial pot of porridge that’s “just right.” He and the average Jane are simply accepted as they are--they don't intimidate or repulse others. They’re not unduly pitied or reviled for being ugly, nor undeservedly envied or revered for being beautiful. People look at their average faces and bodies and assume “here’s a couple of fine, upstanding people, much like myself–they’re probably good folks.”

I prefer average looking people, myself. That’s who I actually tend to really note “beauty” in, both physically and spiritually. You might be 15 pounds overweight with thinning hair, but your eyes make my heart melt. You might have crooked teeth and bad skin, but your hands are lovely and expressive. I look at you and say to myself, “see, they’re not perfect, either, but they have perfectly beautiful physical things about them that draw me to them,” and that’s enough. I NOTICE these little things--all the time.

I have been fortunate in my life that most of the people I’ve encountered on a personal level also happen to be fairly intelligent, insightful, and talented. So the assumptions I make about my “average” compatriots’ intelligence or spiritual beauty tend to be a positive foregone conclusion. Of course the deeper you dive into another person’s psyche the more beautiful they become–their words and thoughts DO inform your vision of them in the physical realm. But your connection to them is still completely interdependent–it’s the physical/spiritual/intellectual combo plate–it can’t be ordered a la carte.

Do other people ever really look past my overall physicality and start to see any of those little pieces of perfection? Or do they just enjoy my company and admire my talents enough to the point that they don’t even really “see” me at all? Fortunately (or unfortunately–I can’t quite decide which), I think the answer is “yes” to the latter. Case in point: a few weeks ago, I organized and emceed a cabaret evening as a fund raiser for a local charity, which featured musical performances of show tunes by several women theatre leaders in our community, myself included. I was so overheated from running around getting everything together, that by the time the show was underway and I was up there under the lights introducing and later on performing, my face was wringing wet. I used a napkin to blot away the sweat (trying to preserve what little good my makeup was doing me), and by the time I got ready for bed that night, after having come home and sat at my own kitchen table with my husband and four of my closest friends for another couple of hours, I looked in the bedroom mirror as I took off my jewelry and realized that I had two small pieces of napkin still stuck to my face–right there on my cheek and on my forehead. And NO ONE saw them. Or if they did, they didn’t bother to tell me I had schmutz on my face. And the last time I had “dabbed” my face that evening was in the middle of the program. Which means not only did those sitting right across from me at my own kitchen table not register the crap on my face, but neither did anyone I was performing with, which is bizarre...So is it that (A) no one cares enough to tell me or (B) no one really SEES me?

I know people love me. I know that in spite of my imperfections that they do, in fact, see the beauty in what lies within. But I think they’ve learned to divorce my inside from my outside, and I find that really sad, in a way. Mainly because that’s what I’ve been doing for YEARS. I had a friend tell me one time (and she intended it as a compliment) that she was really amazed by me–that she thought it was great that I didn’t let my weight limit me socially–that I seemed to always be willing to go out and do the things I wanted to do. Which, when turned around in my stinking-thinking mind sounded like, “Gee, it’s great that you don’t let the fact that you’re fat get in the way of your having a good time.” Which was actually kind of true, because I have kind of always pretended that I’m not. I always thought I “carried it well.” I think I might have what they refer to in anorexics as body dysmorphic disorder (BDD). In the anorexic’s case, it usually manifests itself as their inability to look in the mirror and see their skeletal visage as anything but fat. I think BDD works the other way around in my case–I see myself as being about half the size I actually am. It also affects the way I see just my face–I look in a mirror, and I think, "at least I have a beautiful face," but then I look at photographs and they tell a completely different story! Mirrors do, in fact, lie. They lie like rugs.

So, what’s the point of this particular afternoon’s musings on inner vs. outer beauty? How did I even get here today? And is this line of thinking going to take me anywhere new? Will it lead me to a new understanding and acceptance of myself, or will it spur me on to more strongly endeavor to change myself? Or will my oldest and dearest, apathy, keep me right where I am? Who knows....who knows.