I met up with a friend recently who is absolutely gorgeous. You know the ones - the sort of woman who has an effortless sense of style with dewy make-up, dressed in clothes that hang just right. Standing next to her I felt like a baboon having a bad hair day. It’s actually quite hard being friends with her, not helped by the fact that the last time we met she asked me, ‘Why don’t you think about getting some Botox? Or having your teeth done? I can recommend a great place.’
I looked at her completely incredulously. It wasn’t just the gobsmacking insensitivity or the fact that she seemed oblivious to how hurtful her comments could be to someone who cared. No, what stunned me the most was her self-obsessiveness and vanity. I mean, what middle-aged mum has time in the world for any of that? It’s far better to be a middle-aged plain Jane with nothing to lose.
If you see me as ugly, then so what? It’s none of my business what you think of me – I honestly couldn’t give a toss. Acceptance of the word ugly is like a superpower that has finally freed me from the shackles of caring whether my face is symmetric, or if I have high cheekbones.
I can barely find five minutes to clean my teeth and put deodorant on in the morning. If I manage to match my jeans and shirt before greeting the world I feel like Kate Moss. But now, I find myself surrounded by women my age who seemingly have nothing more interesting to talk about than their declining physical appearance. God, it’s boring, and it honestly makes me realise just how lucky I am that I’ve never been blessed with good looks.
Denne historien er fra January 08, 2024-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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Denne historien er fra January 08, 2024-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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'SEEING MY NAME ON TV IS SURREAL'
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