Friday 23 July 2010

On Beauty

When I was younger, I had a friend named Georgina.
Georgina was very beautiful but was also (annoyingly) very depressed about her own physical attractiveness.

With no hint of irony, she would sigh to me over our bottles of beer "Oh Catherine, you could never understand. Nobody takes me seriously. Men never want to befriend me, they are only interested in getting me into bed. Other women are jealous of me and think I am out to steal their boyfriends. It is very lonely being beautiful."

I watched her flick her shiny hair back, away from her perfect face.
I took sneaky glances out of the corner of my eye at her long, thin limbs and her tiny waist.
I wondered what it would be like to inhabit a body like Georgina's. I still do.

As my friend so kindly implied, I don't have much to offer in the way of physical attractiveness.
But I always took consolation that losing the little I did have, with time, wouldn't worry me.
As Mr. Dylan says "When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose."

But I suppose I underestimated my own vanity. 
Because when those few small claims I had to physical beauty left me, it still hurt. Just a little. 
Which seems ridiculous in light of the some of the other things that I have lost in recent years.

***

My husband and I were walking down a busy London street. 
I was pushing Jessica in the buggy and moaning on about how much I wanted to go to the Whole Foods Market and La Pain Quoti.dien on Kensing.ton High Street. Not that I'm obsessed with stuffing my face or anything. Well, maybe a little.

My husband was nodding and kind of grunting in response, as he often does whilst I rabbit on, when suddenly his face was transformed. A look of interest kindled in his eyes. His nose stuck out a little more, like a dog pointing at its prey. For a brief instant, I believed that I had managed to convey my excitement over our proximity to high quality baked goods adequately and that he too was salivating over potential food purchases.

But, with a flicker of tawny hair and jiggling breasts, I soon saw the real reason for his sudden perkiness. 
An attractive young girl running for the bus. With all the vitality and glow of youth travelling in her wake.

My initial thought was, as it is with many things these days due to that pesky shard of troll-mirror that got stuck in my eye at some point in August 2008, Georgina. Everything and anything can be refracted through that interfering piece of glass and be turned into something to do with either birth or death. 
Funny that.

Oh my heart. My poor old sore and weary heart.
My Georgina.
She will never grow up and be beautiful and run for the bus. Unaware of her own jiggly beauty. Unaware of the stares from the eyes of all those lecherous older men who should know better. 
Her hair will never be long and tawny. 
It will simply never be.
She will never have the glow or beauty of youth although she will always be young. 

And isn't it strange how there is no room in my imaginings for a spotty Georgina? Or a fat Georgina? 
Or a painfully shy Georgina who would rather die than wobble about so alluringly on a public road?
Although she would have been no less perfect in the eyes of her mother for that. But death imparts a certain, strange perfection. Or perhaps I thought that, by giving her the same name as my beautiful friend, I could gift beauty to her. Like a fairy godmother.

***

I remembered the one fabulous meltdown I had when Jessica was in the special care nursery. When she was on the intensive care ward I had numerous messy and public melt downs but in special care, just the one.

When Jessica was transported back to the hospital in which she was born, the doctor who delivered her was there to greet us. She cried. I cried.
We talked about that morning. When the girls were born. We talked about Jessica and what the future might hold. We discussed potential issues. 
One of these was an umbilical hernia - a protrusion of body tissues through a weakness or hole in other body tissues - in this case, around her tummy button. 
The doctor, who had resuscitated Jessica as a 1lb 7oz newborn, suggested that Jessica might want to consider re-constructive surgery when she was older. To ensure that her navel looked pretty in a bikini.

And suddenly the fact that Jessica would grow up. 
Would care what her navel looked like. 
Might choose to wear a bikini. 
Suddenly all of these facts seemed absolutely overwhelmingly, unbearably luxurious. 
To sit and worry about her tummy button of all things.
Not death.
Not brain damage.
Not blindness.
Not leaky kidneys.
And the thought that Jessica might one day wear a bikini and want to flaunt a pretty tummy button.
That brought me to my knees. In that little side ward, with that young doctor looking at me so earnestly and talking about this re-construction as though it mattered. It absolutely ruined me.
I wonder if she might have an inkling as to why that particular discussion made me fall to bits so.

***

Anyhow. 

Back to my husband gawking at the pretty, running girl.

He says "What was that? Sorry, I got distracted" and smiles sheepishly.
I raise my eyebrows.
He says "It makes the world go round you know."
I raise my eyebrows again.

But I feel sorry for him.
I feel sorry for us.
Because I suspect that he will never look at me in that way again.
He did. 
When I was eighteen. Thinner. Prettier. Younger. Less creased up and bunched up. Less angry. Less bitter. Less sad.
Even when I was older, he could still look at me that way. 
I don't think he saw the heaviness that the years weighed upon my limbs or the sag that slowly pulled me down. Because he could still conjure the eighteen year old me from his memory and disguise myself inside her
Because he could remember the young woman that I once was.

I don't look at people that way any longer.
Wondering what it would be like to take them to bed.
I'm surprised he still has the heart. Or the other necessary equipment.
But, as he says, it makes the world go round.

My husband must have married me because, at the root of the matter, he found me a little attractive.
Biologically speaking. A fair prospect for reproduction.

Except, as we all know, appearances can be deceiving.

I have sets of matching lingerie.
I have a bag full of make up.
Perfume. 
High heeled shoes.

They all sit unworn, unopened. Fossilised since the girls were born.

I could wear them, put them on, bat my eyelashes at my husband but . .  .they all feel like false advertising.
The artifice, that they always were, suddenly seems tawdry and desperate.
I can't bring myself to even try.
Because I can talk the talk but I can't walk the walk.
Much as I might want to.

Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please: 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone.'

I can't give him anything. 
Not even a come hither look.
All that is on offer within this reproductive system is death, illness, despair or a vast indifference.
Take your pick. 
Of your Freudian dichotomy I can offer you, hmmm let me see . . . neither. 
No child. 
And nothing of interest either. Nothing to amuse.

And because I can't resist a little music.

'This song is for the soil
That's toxic clear down to the bedrock
Where no thing of consequence can grow
Drop your seeds there, let them go
Let them go.'
 

18 comments:

  1. Don't be so hard on yourself. I think just after having kids in general makes us feel less intimate. We have more on our minds (us more than others!), less time and desire to make ourselves pretty. I sometimes catch my husband eyeing other women too, but he does not love me any less. Funny, I was just thinking of similar things just a couple of days ago...I too have lingerie just sitting idle...

    I totally get your breakdown! What simplicity amidst all the complicated stuff. Such a brief reprieve to a land of heaviness would have done the same to me too. :)

    Sending you warm hugs. :)

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  2. My make up, nice clothes and high heels remain shelved as well. I totally understand.
    xo

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  3. Oh, and I grew up knowing two Hopes. Just average, plain girls. Nothing extraordinary about them. And that's all I wanted from my Hope. Just a regular sort of kid. Who lived.
    xo

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  4. Such an amazing gift you have to share yourself! I absolutely love reading your posts- I hang on your words and then I feel I want to comment but wonder where to begin... While I am always moved by your writing- what struck a chord in me was when you referred to death- and that it does impart a certain perfection! I felt the same way- I had my boys as best friends- top athletes... blah blah blah- probably because he wasn't here... An adult 'twin' I know assured me that that 'twin' thing does not always make you best friends... he didn't even talk to his twin much- but still I had them that way-
    Thinking of you!
    Thank you always for sharing yourself so beautifully- so raw.
    Hugs-
    L

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  5. Such an honest post Catherine. You are beautiful in so many ways. xx

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  6. Not to be trite about your lovely and sad post, but I Really like that band! Never heard them before today. Thanks for sharing. I clicked on their "This Year" video.
    I like the chorus. "I am gonna make it through this year, if it kills me" just brilliant.

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  7. Sadkitty - I'm so pleased! I love the Mountain Goats. I actually used to listen to "I am gonna make it through this year, if it kills me" as I walked to the hospital to see Jessica in those final days of December before she came home.

    Laura - I've decided that my posts are too always far too long and ramble far over too many subjects but I can't seem to change!

    Sally - I wish that, by naming our children we could give them a gift. I wouldn't wish for beauty again. I would wish for life. Average, plain ole standard issue life. I wish your Hope could have been a regular kid. Instead she is, sadly, extraordinary.

    Thank you Andrea. I know that my husband still loves me and if catching him eyeing other girls upset me we would have parted ways um. . . about a decade ago! And what you say is true about having kids. I suppose because having my second child and losing my first child all happened at once so sometimes it is hard to pick out my happened as a result of what bit?

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  8. what an incredibly honest post.

    there are days when i must let others see beauty for me, because it can be hard to see it in myself. they will say "your hair is so CUTE!" or "you look so pretty today" and I will try to believe what they say because my eyes simply do not see what it is that others compliment me on.

    And death does lead us to think of our babies with only perfection. When i envision Liam, he is so perfect. A lovely, handsome, curly headed toddler. Amazing green eyes. And a good listener. A nice play mate.

    Thinking of you as August approaches.

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  9. Well now, I have met you in real life and I can tell you (although I realise that this isn't the point of the post) that you are lovely looking.

    But I hear you. Loud and clear.

    I found myself Capulet-ing to a young woman the other day then realising I was actually younger than her...

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  10. Oh I hear you. Completely. I apologised to my hubby just yesterday for never shaving my legs or putting on heels anymore. Poor man!

    I remember jiggly beauty.... these days the beauty has been replaced by several extra jigglies! :(

    xxx

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  11. well, our husbands are still around, so they must see something in us... I think love grows and changes anyway - and I am glad that it does.

    As for Jessica's belly button - I thought umbilical hernias could heal themselves and not be a problem.

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  12. Sophie, I have quite a few extra jigglies myself :)

    Amy, I can't help but think they would have been perfect you know? Liam and Georgina. No matter how they looked or what personality characteristics they had. They would have been perfect to us, their mothers. But we are just left with our own imagined perfection instead. Sigh.
    And you look very beautiful in your photographs. I hope that you will recognise your own beauty more easily again one day.

    Jess - I like that phrase, Capulet-ing. Don't think I've ever Capulet-ed someone younger than me but I have done it to most of my friends. As I feel a couple of decades older than them now.

    And it did heal up on its own in the end Ya Chun! In fact, despite looking like a tiny balloon for quite some time, it healed very neatly indeed. As, I believe, a lot of them do.

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  13. I just want to tell you that I think you are beautiful.

    Your husband is a very lucky man.

    Jessica's belly button will tell a beautiful story.

    And Georgina. Maybe I will tell you how I see her. I see her as a little gold light.

    Its funny you know, I have images in my head of all our babies. They are all different. None of them are the same.

    In my mind Hope is a cheeky little girl that gets up to mischief with my son. The both of them giggle at how much trouble they are getting up to and they know their mamas cannot do a thing about it.

    I see Iris and Lucia as good friends, much like their mothers are. They sit around together and paint pictures and tell stories.

    I see George as a little forest sprite, dancing about and taking on different forms.

    I see Jordan. The little dragonfly princess. That girls has her own dragonfly wings. She shares them with the other children and gives lessons from the ground on how to fly.

    Georgina. I see her as a gold light. She travels from place to place to be with her friends. She shines her warm light on them. She is their sunshine.

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  14. What a beautiful post, Catherine. Thank you for sharing, and I am sure so many of us can relate to the sentiments in here.
    The "never" parts, it always break me heart.... the things our babies will never ever get to do... I still struggle to come to terms with all that.

    You are beautiful. Please never doubt that. Age only makes beauty more enticing, it will not subtract to it. xo

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  15. So tenderly honest...

    ((HUG))

    I was bemoaning my lost shred of pseudo beauty the other day to my husband...not that I ever felt beautiful. But...at least my hair was free of gray...my eyes didn't have creases...I didn't have a frown line...I wasn't so heavy. Oh goodness, I was plump, YES...but...not like this...not like this. He held my hand and smiled sweetly..."You know baby...I used to masturbate to the image of my fat middle aged French teacher...You look beautiful to me." Now, I realize that I have a uniquely sweet man...but, I think where I am going with this is that it really IS true that beauty is about who you are, not what you look like. Ideals of beauty change and wither throughout the ages...there is an inner strength in you that is so beautiful I can't stay away from reading your words and wishing I could embrace you as my sister. You are beautiful. Even with the pain. You are beautiful. Even if not a siren. You are BEAUTIFUL because you have lived...and continue to find a way to move forward. It isn't true that beauty knows no pain. Beauty is the result of pain. Without pain....it is a shallow shell of something that fades. Your brand of beauty is steadfast...You can tell your husband I said so. (HUG)

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  16. May I say that I love your writing. I've been a long time lurker, and I finally decided I need to tell you how much your writing is appreciated. I have not gone through anything similar to what you have, but I have my fair share of pain and fear in life. And your word touches me, a balm to my wounds, a salve to my sores. Not that it should matter to you. I wish I could be the one helping you heal. But thank you.

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  17. Carly, that is lovely. I have a few similar images of our children. I can only catch a tiny glimpse of them, from the corner for my eye.

    Janis - here is to my becoming more enticing. Thank you.

    Butterfly - thank you. Your husband is a sweet man. I think you're right. Once you've been through the fire of a painful experience, you become somehow . . refined.

    Thank you Lewis. That is very kind of you. I hope that your own burden of pain and fear will become lighter given time.
    I think that many experiences, far more than I would have imagined a couple of years ago, share similar qualities. Each unique yet, underneath, they share the ability to throw our entire lives up in the air and bring them down again. Where they re-settle into a different form, a different life.

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  18. All I can say is, I can relate to the "false advertising" bit of this post. I know that if my husband was a different kind of man, he would already have done more than just look at jiggly beauty. I am thankful that he is not.
    And I must say, it seems to me that between you and your friend, you are certainly the one who is beautiful.
    (())

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