In the days of yore, I was always conscious of how unpretty I looked and I took pains to hide the flaws and downplay the hideous. Maybe it had something to do with being the ugly sister to four pretty, younger girls and a very critical mum. I was always reminded that I was the older sister, the one who'd age first while I watched my younger sisters bloom.
It wasn't only blood relatives who'd comment about my age, and lack of appeal. When I was twenty someone told me, "You are losing your bloom... soon people will be looking at your sisters and not notice you. You'll be an old maid if you don't marry me."
Did I choose to be his wife? No. I thought ending up as an ugly, old maid was a better option.
But that did not mean I was willing to embrace my physical flaws. I still wanted to look attractive so I'd have many friends... like my sisters. I guess I often had a permanent scowl on my round-as-a-moon face and looked like I was ready to pounce on anyone who crossed me. People were scared of me!
I bought beauty aids I could ill-afford. I'll never forget the day I went to this store to buy much needed underwear but ended up paying for a handful of powders and creams which the salesgirl said would magic away my ugliness. Of course they didn't work. But desperate people believe anything they are told.
I kept my hair long. I had it cut short. I had it curled and styled by professional hairstylists only to go home and be greeted by my kids... my own flesh and blood... with "you look like a monkey... or kangaroo" or other similar animals. When we went to church Mr Hubby refused to sit near me and the kids so his friends wouldn’t know he was married to the monkey/kangaroo.
I gave up on my face and hair and thought I'd concentrate on the rest of me instead. I jogged. When everyone was still asleep I was already out jogging and was back home in time to make breakfast. Unfortunately, I had to stop when thieves and robbers also went jogging. I took up tennis and bought rackets for the whole family. That didn't last long partly because Mr Hubby's idea of fun was hitting the ball with all his might so I'd miss it and had to run and pick the ball up instead of catching it with my racket. I ended up just picking up all the balls he had hit.
Oh well, I thought, at least I can paint my nails and make my hands pretty. My nails were shiny and pink when sis-in-law dropped by… to ask me to sew her a blouse. Instead of getting compliments I was chastised!
|My hand is for working|
“God gave you hands to do work not to look pretty,” she said. I picked my jaw off the floor and turned my face so she wouldn’t notice the tears that threatened to fall.
I gave up chasing beauty long ago… after years of trying to look pretty so at least no one can accuse me of laziness. (“There are no ugly women, only lazy ones.”)
My dear reader, you may not believe this but being ugly can be an advantage—sometimes. Ugliness can be used like a veil behind which you stay safe and secure because people leave you alone. And it is also fun when you turn around suddenly to face a stalker and see how he stops in his track, his eyes widen in shock and his mouth hangs open. And you have done nothing except turn around to look at him!
You can blame your ugliness for keeping people at bay, when in reality you’re crippled by the thought of letting another person close enough to potentially scar you even more deeply. (Jodi Picoult... The Storyteller)