With all this fine literature along the lines of I’m Beautiful and I Hate It! circling the Internet, I’ve felt it’s my time to chime in with my point-of-view on the subject. But how does one comment on their level of attractiveness without putting out the vibe that they’re a self-obsessed jughead dingbat or, worse, starving for attention? As I walked around my apartment, glancing at my reflection in various shiny household objects, the answer came to me: Honesty.
See, the problem with a lot of the articles making the rounds are their lack of total honesty. Of course, I don’t think they’re lying. I know these attractive people truly believe they’re beautiful, but what’s missing for me is how beautiful they think they are, or aren’t. So for the sake of integrity, I’d like to talk about how attractive I think I really am.
I’m never the best looking guy at a hipster bar. I am, however, probably the best looking guy at a “Game of Thrones” viewing party. I never get free drinks. However, I’m sure a beautiful woman would let me buy her a drink. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t go home with me unless she was coming off of a terrible breakup with a good-looking graphic designer named James or Henry. On the color wheel, from cold to hot, I’m probably a mild-to-moderate burnt sienna. On a scale from 1 to 100, I’m a solid 80. I’m the silver trophy. The name-brand medication. The vanilla candle that smells like turkey when you burn it for too long. If an HR rep were to pull me into a post-lunch meeting about the effort I’ve put towards being attractive, they’d probably tell me I’m doing a good job, but I’m not giving it 110 percent and further complacency will lead to my termination. If there was a movie poster with my face on it, I’d be directly behind the guy who was directly behind the guy who was directly behind Ryan Gosling — and my face be blurred out in Photoshop. Once, somebody compared me to John Krasinski and I got really excited. A few weeks later, my brother told me my face was distinctly horse-like, so I got less excited. If I were a beverage, I’d be a cold glass of Mr. Pibb, or a just-above-room-temperature glass of milk. If I were an animal, I’d be more majestic than those goats that faint when they’re scared, but less majestic than the goats who can scream. If attractiveness were measured by Nicholas Cage movies, I’d be way better than “The Wicker Man,” worse than “Moonstruck,” and on-par with “Face/Off.”
To be excruciatingly attractive would, more likely than not, be an exciting thing for me. I wouldn’t pretend to dislike the constant attention, sultry stares and well-fitting designer jeans. For an attention-seeking, semi-professional male, the thought of having a stunning body and physique to fall back on would calm me and make me feel as if I were constantly snuggled up in my favorite blanket with my a warm apple pie in one hand and an American flag in the other. To be unattractive to the point of repulsion from the public would be a true handicap, because whether we’d like to admit it or not, being a fox gets you ahead. Hey, do you know how many thin and stunning interns I’ve met in my life? Lots. I’m not saying they got to where they are based on looks alone, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that looking into their eyes make you feel like you’re floating in marshmallow fluff.
I’m a B and that’s A-Ok with me. I’m good looking enough where I can grab a stranger’s attention, but not stunning enough to hold it for an extended amount of time. I go on dates, but I don’t have women falling over me in a passionate, pre-coma daze. I’ll never have a song written about my face, but I might get a haiku or a shitty poem dedicated to me. I’m especially lucky, because I attribute all my success to genetics. Somehow, my diet of chicken nuggets and Tecate hasn’t ravaged my body. Somehow, my preference for hard candy and soda hasn’t rotted my teeth out of my skull. And somehow, my gargantuan nose doesn’t offset the rest of face, and send my body careening towards the earth at the speed of sound.
Would I change society’s view on looks if I had the opportunity? Would I choose to live in a world where one’s face wasn’t the first thing a person saw, forcing them to listen to your thoughts, feelings, ideas, and desires? Would I be the trailblazer who broke down social walls and promoted equality throughout the masses by eliminating discrimination against the sweet, yet unlucky folks who can’t help their unfortunate appearance? Yes … if I wasn’t a B. Otherwise no. Definitely not. Come on.
[Photo from Shutterstock]