Ugly Women Have More Fun

“‘I’d give a lot to achieve fun,’ Elphaba said. ‘The best I usually hope for is ‘stirring,’ and when people say that they’re usually referring to digestion.'” ~from Wicked

I am an ugly woman. It doesn’t bother me in the least.

Despite the whispered assurances of my parents that I was, in fact, pretty (what parent, after all, would tell his or her offspring the unvarnished truth), I’ve known I was ugly for a long time. From the time I turned thirteen I knew beauty was not among my gifts. Wit, yes. Athletic ability, all right. Academic ability, fair enough. I was never going to be pretty. If I’d have been Sleeping Beauty with the gifts from my fairy aunties, they skipped out on that part.

For a long time I went through the Phases of Grief when it came to Being Pretty. Denial: I’d grow out of it somehow, like the Ugly Duckling. Bargaining: I’d gladly swap a few dozen IQ points if it meant being gorgeous. Depression: I wasn’t beautiful, therefore, everything sucked. Now that I’m older, I’ve slid comfortably into Acceptance, and it feels great.

In my acceptance of my ugliness, I’ve taken notice of many things. Namely, that I spend a lot less time and effort trying to look attractive for…who? A potential suitor? Would-be employers? Some nebulous concept of “guys?” I make sure my hair is brushed and my clothes are clean and I smell like something fresh and clean. No makeup, no expensive hair products, and certainly none of the crazy things that pass for fashion these days. I spend the leftover cash on books and nights at the theatre.

It’s not as if I walk out of the house looking like a slob. I invest money in a decent hairdresser (one of the few luxuries I permit myself) and clothes from a funky, hipster-ish thrift store. I’m never going to get caught on People of Wal-Mart or some similar site. I’m ugly, not colorblind or fashionably challenged.

The real reason I have come to enjoy being an Ugly Woman, though, has nothing to do with clothes or makeup. It’s freedom. Because there are so few expectations of me now, I am free to do just about anything. I can make sarcastic remarks at the expense of people who annoy me. I can treat pathetic come-ons from men as a cat treats a mouse with a broken leg. If I travel, I don’t have to worry about unwanted attention. Because an ugly woman, like so many of the marginalized segments of our society, is invisible. If she is noticed at all, it is to garner the kind of pity people seem to reserve for the lame, the terminally ill, and the very strange.

Freedom is something I don’t see that most of the Pretty Women have. They are slaves to fashion, slaves to men’s expectations, slaves to whatever Hollywood and Madison Avenue tells them. Between being ugly and living a life like that, I’ll take ugliness.

To paraphrase the dwarf Tyrion from the terrific Game of Thrones series, I can’t forget what I am, but I can use it as a strength. And so I have. Ugliness doesn’t have to mean unhappiness or grief. It can be the beginning of many possibilities. I’m just starting to discover what those are.

This one is a little controversial…how do you feel about it? Would you agree or disagree on the concept of Ugly Women?

If you haven’t voted already, there’s still time to cast your vote for the winner of the first annual P&Q Hunger Games. It’s a tight race (Doctor Who vs. River Tam) and every vote counts!

~ by Howlin' Mad Heather on October 2, 2012.