I watched her move.
The way she interacted delicately and laughed free of inhibition.
I caught glimpses of her as she completed tasks and I thought of the way men must view her.
Like, some sort of unicorn, so beautiful that it can’t be real.
I looked at her face.
Every feature seemed to be placed with great thought.
The longer I stared the more beauty I found in every curve and crevice.
She was art.
I questioned my own features.
Would I be lovelier if my nose turned up just a bit more?
Is beauty found in the kind of body that can wear cut off shorts?
Has anyone ever looked that deeply at me?
I found myself admiring her and envying her at the same time.
This stranger’s looks held what I deemed perfection.
In a way that many women’s do.
I’m quick to find beauty, especially in another.
But, I feel unbearably normal.
Less than captivating.
It’s a great place that I’ve come to where I no longer hate myself.
But, as Elie Wiesel says, “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”
I may no longer hate the way I look.
But, do I delight in it?
I feel so outrageously ordinary.
I thought of that and I wondered if this beauty that I admired had any idea.
Did she know she was spectacular?
Or did she end her days questioning her thighs and wondering if anyone had ever really looked at her.