My Newfound Love For Dirty Men

Let me begin by stating the obvious: I in no way believe that I was somehow merely overlooked as Miss Universe, and that I, in fact, should have been recognized for the clearly obvious unique beauty that I am. I recognize and appreciate my status as “girl next door.” I don’t need to be on the “exceptional” side of the beauty spectrum—I’m happy enough to have not fallen all of the way on the other side. The point is, I am pretty normal. And I like receiving compliments as much as any other girl. But also like most girls, I get a little annoyed when (read: I often yell inappropriate things when…) construction workers/gangs of pre-pubescent teenage boys/old men holler at me from afar. In my mind, they might as well be giant penises yelling “Feed me!” I could just as well be a hairy man in a wig, and they’d probably take it. But let me tell you, I have recently had a slight change of heart.

Since moving to Holland, I have had to make many an adjustment; I bike everywhere instead of driving; I don’t worry about my hair too much, as the wind/rain/etc. will undoubtedly make a nest of it as soon as I step outside; I rely totally on my watch instead of the sun for indication of time, as winter days are 100% dark and summer ones 100% light; I live in a state of whiteness that is practically see-though and don’t even hope that I will see enough sun to change it; I always wear waterproof mascara so that the rain doesn’t make it run in the winter and my watery, hay fever-ridden eyes don’t make it a black waterfall in the spring and summer; I always carry tissues so that I can attempt to avoid the use of my sleeve for all of the parts of me that seem to be dripping; and lastly I avoid cutting bangs, as sweat/rain/wind/humidity do not seem to accommodate the sweeping look. I’m sure there’s more, but I think you get the point. I have made many adaptations.

Now if you read carefully, you’ll see a few patterns in there. First, it seems the weather sucks at just about every time of year. Second, it seems that the weather prevents me from doing anything in the way of beauty maintenance. OK, so it’s not the end of the world. I realize. I’m not complaining. In fact, it’s kind of nice to not have to worry about it. I mean, every other girl is in the same boat as me, so we all pretty much look like butt together. Strength in numbers, right? (Except boo to the girls who go to the tanning beds and stuff—that’s cheating. You’ll pay for it someday. And also to the people who don’t sweat—I hate you.) Anyhow, the general point is that, no matter what time of year it is, I look like I’ve been chewed up by a washing machine and spit back out after an aggressive spin cycle. Living in this constant state of degraded appearance, I have grown to appreciate the “wildlife” more than in the past.

Now, when I bike against the wind with my hair looking about as inviting as the snakes on Medusa, my eyes more bloodshot than a crack addict’s, unnatural amounts of fluids streaming from every orifice on my face, and red spots covering my every inch of pale skin like rosacea, I have to admit that a “Hey girl—you’re looking good today!” doesn’t do anything to hurt the situation. So maybe my construction worker friend just hasn’t seen any action in a while (or ever, in the case of the pre-pubescent gangs of just-emerging hormones), but his desperation is enough to make me feel like maybe my hay-fevered face isn’t only for my mother and Marc to love. So instead of yelling out-of-character remarks in reply, I throw them a cheesy smile and overly-enthusiastic thanks. The worst part is, I mean it. Really, I am the last person who is going to argue with the desperate man’s assessment of my appearance, because just like him, I’ll take it where I can get it.