Some questions I imagine myself asking a friend
Do you really believe in the marketplace of dating?
Do you rank people’s attractiveness from 1 to 10 and imagine that being an objective measure? (Already I’m getting a bit judgy here.)
Then I'd start pontificating about preconceived notions: Wouldn’t it be nice if we…?
He’d interrupt, incredulous, and ask if I don’t think there’s an objective measure of attractiveness. Don’t I think it matters? Am I blind? What about this? What about that?
I’d have to concede that I do. Attractive people do seem to float to the top. Or, I’d muse, maybe it’s standing on the precipice that makes them attractive.
He’d scoff. He’s looking for a beautiful woman with large breasts to love him. And who doesn’t want that? He’s angry, often resentful, that he can’t seem to find her.
Silently, I do the math: I’m a woman, I’m well-endowed, but I’m older than him. I’ve aged out of both the “young” and “adult” categories. (We all metaphorically die at 45 and are expected to give up our spot in line, yes?) I’m overweight — significantly so these days. My skin has blemishes and is losing its elasticity. It all adds up to me not fitting the bill. Even if I were interested. Which I’m not.
For real.
But you can hear how it comes across?
It seems to me — and I know this sounds idealistic, stupid, and copey — that quite a few people defy my standard of “objectively beautiful.” They’re fat, they’re old, they have mosquito-bite tits, they have dwarfism — yet they’re successful, and they present a happy demeanor.
So we’re back to the age-old, worn adage. Actually, I don’t even know if it qualifies as an adage. It’s more like a recycled piece of wisdom, now considered the refuge of simps because it’s practically impossible to internalize:
It’s self-confidence — your willingness to be present and engage — that matters. The kind of attention you get depends, I guess. But ultimately, if you’re not around, if you don’t speak or participate, no one will notice you. Being pretty only helps so much.
So is it a choice between changing your personality or your looks? I’d say it’s easier to make it about looks. In theory, you can change your appearance — with hard work or other means — but it’s harder to become confident, outgoing, and comfortable taking up space. Harder still to maintain that confidence over time.
Some people can’t help it. Their personalities are as big as their boobs. Sometimes they also have high cheekbones and calves like an antelope’s.
When I was a child, I developed a theory about attractiveness — about innate appeal. I sensed there were people who had “it.” Even as a kid, I recognized the way some people were tracked for success, for popularity. I saw that I wasn’t one of them.
That idea — of them having something I didn’t — took root early and deep. To this day, I struggle to dislodge it.
I try to talk myself out of it. I tell myself that people have different experiences, different personalities. Some people are more sensitive to others’ emotions. Some have circumstances that make them fit in more easily. I can say all that. But I also know my speculation came from not being where I wanted to be. Not just socially, but existentially.
It’s not only about recognizing what’s popular. It’s about knowing what you want, where you are, and where you want to be. And when the gap seems insurmountable, you start asking why. The easiest answer is: because you don’t have “it.” So it’s always been — and will always be — impossible.
That belief metastasizes. It mutates into the idea that nothing is attainable. That you can’t achieve anything, because you weren’t born with what it takes. Even if you try, you’ll fail. And if you don’t try, you resent the world for not giving it to you anyway.
My friend, at least, tried. When he felt he didn’t measure up to aesthetic standards, he worked on his body. He exercised, studied grooming, researched methods for reducing the flaws he perceived — like the fat in his face. He wasn’t overweight, just had round cheeks. But he wanted to fix what he saw as defects.
He tried. And when the results didn’t come fast enough — or didn’t bring the rewards he expected — he grew impatient. Then angry. Then resentful.
There are so many tragedies in all this. So many small, quiet losses. One of them is the idea that only some people are beautiful enough to be wanted. I don’t know what it takes to be model — beautiful. It’s not my world. Outside of photo shoots, models look like people. Sometimes ordinary. I don’t trust myself to judge, really.
But the deeper tragedy is this:
If we could just say, “This is who I am. I have value. I have something to give,” and really believe it — then we could seek people who are suitable for us. That would be ideal.
But even if you tell yourself that, it’s hard to live it. We don’t really operate that way. We evaluate each other with every available sense. And I did the same when choosing partners. I had preferences. I rejected people based on them.
So maybe the best we can do is accept that: people are drawn to certain traits. But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless if you don’t possess them. It doesn’t reduce your value as a person.
You are not defined by whether someone finds you attractive. It doesn’t have to shape how you see the world.
That’s the real tragedy: how much anxiety, bitterness, and paralysis we invite into our lives by using other people’s perception as our mirror.
This is the conclusion then:
The marketplace is just a more elaborate version of the social hierarchy we internalize as children. It’s a logical extension of finding ourselves lacking and then constructing systems to explain, justify, and moralize what we want, why we can’t have it, and how we act in response.
Maybe you can’t get the partner you want — marketplace.
Maybe you treat people you deem beneath you like shit — marketplace.
Maybe you tell yourself you deserve certain traits in a partner — marketplace.
It’s stupid. It’s tragic. Everyone loses — except the reality TV industry.