Once upon a time, a while back, I saw a post on Tumblr that to my irritation I can't find again - it said something to the effect of "a woman is a mammal that sweats and grunts" and it seemed to open a pathway in my brain that hasn't closed since. Maybe its the fact that I am down with glandular fever (or 'mono' as my American friends may know it), but that post has been front and centre for the past few days. You see, friends and neighbours, it is hard to feel pretty when you are sick like this. Impossible to feel sexy... And according to media and romantasy we are (woman more so than men, but lets be real all of us) are required to somehow be alluring in one way or another at all times in order to be... well, what exactly? Worthy?
But I have something to say for Ugly. Something in defence of chronically Unsexy... something worth hearing about the power of being taken back, by sickness or desperation or endeavour for survival, to the base of what we are.
I won't sugar coat this because I am beyond embarrassment and sleep is eluding me, so if you're fastidious, tender, or otherwise in a place where you don't want to deal with vulgarity please back away; I won't hold it against you....
Still here? Ok, lets' go. Don't worry, I'll hold your hand; trust me, it's for me as much as you.
What is a Woman?
Woman, noun:
An adult female human being
I start here because I am a woman, and I can't (and won't) speak to the experience of men. Partly for lack of knowledge, partly because that story is not mine to tell.
Google woman. Choose the 'images' option and consider what you see. Women, mostly young and pretty, but you'll find a few matrons. The connecting factor? They're beautiful, clean, and tidy; they are smiling, they are well-presented. I have rarely felt, if ever, that my picture would fit in on that page.
Let's get basic. Based on averages, a woman (i.e. a mature human female) is a mammal of 5"3 to 5"5, weighing 137 to 163lbs with hair of varying densities covering the surface of their body. On average a woman has a bite force of 50kg with the ability to lift 50% to 70% of their own body weight (depending on whether you are considering upper or lower body strength). A woman is an animal that sweats, grunts, and bites... so why do we feel the need to be pretty?
What, I ask you, has pretty done for you lately?
The Reality of Animality
This morning, swollen, aching, sweating and shaking I hunched over the toilet wishing I was anywhere else. Praying to Jesus, Odin, and anyone else who might listen, I had been staring at the ceramic for what felt like an eternity as my body fought to expel something that it no longer contained and an embarrassing stream of drool (no doubt caused by the ping pong ball esque swelling at either side of my throat) was my only companion. I was, and am, as far from pretty as I feel one can get. The only part of my body not malfunctioning, I feel, is my nose and I know that is true because I can smell myself.
With only the porcelain to consult, I felt every pain, every pang, every retch and shake like a shockwave.
And yet, for the first time in years I was not at odds with my body. We came to an understanding, the two of us; we were fighting on the losing side of the same war and the enemy was (and is) the virus. The sneaky little bastard that has crawled into our glands, causing swelling and pain and sickness is the problem. Suddenly the extra fat on my middle, the fact that my eyelashes are short and straight, my hooded eyelids, my definitely not gravity defying breasts ceased to matter. I cared less about cellulite than about when my abdomen would uncramp so I could snatch a breath and as I wondered whether I might actually faint the fact that I have stretch marks seemed petty. Pretty became irrelevant, and remains irrelevant, because as far as my immune system is concerned the wolves are at the door and its easy to stop giving a fuck about whether you're fuckable when rolling over in bed feels like a herculean task.
Each time the sickness comes, I hunker down with sweat on my brow and spit on my chin; I have mapped every inch of the toilet. I feel the fibre of my muscles and the rush of blood. And I persist; red faced, speckled with broken blood vessels, aching, swollen, and definitely not fragrant in the way I would like - I persist.
Call me a chronic, classic, stereotypical writer, a professional naval gazer completely absorbed with the inner self and myopic to the point of ridiculousness... but I quite like my body now. Not like a lover, but like a foe; I respect her white-knuckle determination to survive (in fact, it awes me because between you and I, I haven't had a will to live for about 16 years). She doesn't need to be pretty, she needs to function. Kudos to her, right?
So why am I telling you?
Accepting Ugly
Think about it, the last time you were properly sick; did you care if you were attractive? Did the rat race seem important? Was the texture of your skin and the sheen of your hair important enough to draw energy from the raw, bloody business of getting by? No.
Of course it wasn't.
You were ugly, and grateful to be so, as I am now, because sickness has a way of making you appreciate what your body does for you. In hindsight, I have never been healthier (mentally) than I am when bent over, clutching my knees or the toilet bowl, spit on my chin, head pounding, guts churning... and if that sounds dramatic, hear me out; once the fever passes I start to Look.
I see the damage that sickness has wrought on my face and I wonder how anyone will love me when my eyes are so small and my face is textured and my thighs are so thick and my.... well, you get the idea. The ability to perceive the self is remarkable, and some would say we are alone in that (though I have doubts, myself), but I can't stop myself from wondering if the gap between the cerebral and the physical is a problem for us. After all, there is a correlation between mental illness and intelligence.
Pretty, beautiful (or handsome) seems to be a concept divorced from the blood and sweat reality of what it means to be human, these days. Maybe that wasn't always the case... All I know is that when I have no choice but to be "ugly", it's easier to find beauty in my body.
I encourage you to let yourself be ugly from time to time, though preferably not by contracting mono (I started this article mid sickness and I can tell you now that it humbled me with extreme prejudice - really, it was almost malicious). Go to the gym, sweat like a pig - go out for a run, roll in the mud. Venture out bare faced, dress for comfort rather than style.
If nothing else, you'll definitely get more compliments when you finally have the desire to polish yourself up a little.
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