wild womanYou have probably been wondering why I am not a contestant in numerous beauty pageants. I base this statement on the likelihood that you have seen me in a bikini, or streaking in a public place.

You haven’t?


Where have you BEEN?

Anyways, I am of course (mostly) joking. The fact is that no human women actually conform to the bodily standards associated with female beauty pageant individuals. So there is some merit to the idea of more obviously human women taking a shot at ‘The Big Time’ to prove to all the little girls at home that you don’t have to shave your armpits to be beautiful!

Or have big boobs!

Or long legs!

Or be taller than the average 10 year old!Etc!

Here is what I assume I would look like as a beauty contestant.

We did it, Cuppy!

Yes, it is an inspiring message for the youth of today: beauty is still all important, you silly goose, but there are different types of beautiful!

The notion that there is but one type of beauty is, of course, utterly absurd. It’s like sandwiches. There are as many different types of sandwich as there are ingredients, as many variations of bread and bun as humans who stuff other food twixt them. Can you imagine a campaign designed to convince an entire populace that, say, black forest ham with mustard were the ideal sandwich?

“But I like BLT on rye!” some may protest.

“No you don’t!” This campaign replies. “You are probably a subversive pervert!”
“You just can’t get ham with mustard. You’d prefer it if you could get it. There must be something terribly wrong with you.”

Madness, I tell you. No wonder people have self esteem problems.

How do we know which sandwich is for us? A little voice tells us. Partly this is our personal taste – a function of our spirits, of our deepest truest selves (yes! even in choosing sandwiches do our souls take part!). Partly this is what our body needs. We crave those foods that feed us best.

We are all hardwired with such a tiny voice that whispers when a soul mate is near us. This voice is roused by clues, markers on this person in their manner or appearance that identify them to your heart as one of yours, as meant to be close to you, containing within them something vital, something you are meant to touch in this life. That voice can be easily lost in the clamour of Maybe she’s born with it, the luster of plastic sheen bodies. It may be speaking of the way his fingers look or how her jaw connects with her neck, whispering the wordless needs of the heart… and we may not hear it, distracted by big pecs and bigger boobs. It’s a trick, and the worst kind, because it tricks us out of the birthright of knowing that there are people in the world who were made just for us, and we for them. The birthright of knowing that we are perfect and that we fit.

Have you seen a man looking at a woman he truly loves? This is the single most beautiful woman in all of history, to him. When she’s sick, when she’s tired, when she’s crumpled with sleep – all he sees is her loveliness. Many women are told that we have to aspire towards being beautiful, so that a good man will find us, and love us. The truth is the opposite: there is a man who already believes you are the single most beautiful incarnation of femininity that the world has ever known.

Everything we do to try and look like someone else makes it harder for our tribe to find us, for us to find each other.

But let’s get down to ‘brass tacks’. Sure, true beauty is great, etc. But the real reason I’m not a beauty pageant contestant is that I would majorly screw up in the question section. I would say something untowards and end up on Maury. I’m perfectly comfortable strutting around mostly naked, as aforementioned. But when some guy asks what he feels to be an incisive question, like

“How would you, as an Institutionally Recognized Good Looking Woman, improve the plight of the poor?”

My response would be “How about you shut up, Bob, you racist sexist classist ass hat. And stop staring at my tiny but impeccable bosom.”