Lately, other women have started to remark, to other women, that I might be pretty but I don't know it. Oh no, who is outing me? Pretty? Me? No, sorry. They must be talking about another Madeline. It is not me. I'm not pretty, and I'm not pretty on purpose.
I spent the first few years of my son's suburban elementary school being thrust into a scene of other mothers and women with whom I normally have nothing in common except private parts. Women who had never been to New York were horrified by tattoos and had never met anyone Jewish growing up. My marriage was failing, I was more and more miserable, and it probably showed in my brusque responses and belief that I was mostly invisible. I was shocked when anyone would even remember my name. Pretty? No. Invisible? Yes.
And then when my relationship totally shattered into a million shards of sharp, broken glass, I had one friend (well, I have a bunch but...) who would gently remind me to do things like shave my legs and cut my bangs. She was my grooming coach and I'm grateful. I must have sat in my attorney's office in those early days, dressed like I was a derelict, crying into his endless box of tissues. It's funny how a rotten relationship will do that to every last shred of self-esteem you have. Pretty? No. Ugly. Sad. Icky. I still bought new shoes each season though, so I must not have been totally out of it but I felt like I was under water most of the time. I stopped paying attention to the differences between myself and the women around me and started seeing how much is the same. We all had kids we loved and cared for. We shared the same neighborhood, the same friends, the same devotion to our schools.
So what if that woman over there runs eight miles a day and has a kind, supportive husband who thinks he is lucky to have her and not the other way around? That's not me but it doesn't make me ugly or sad. It just makes me, me. And yeah, I might be pretty somewhere past the geek-chic glasses and the Margiela wardrobe and I don't think I mind. I'm lucky. I have a friend that is as every bit a BFF as the ones I had when I was 12, I have a beautiful son, I'm smart, I'm funny, I'm generous (and the body is still all good). No matter what I see on the outside when I wake up in the morning, I think I might feel pretty on the inside. And that was worth every little bit of heartache, I promise.
Commentary by Madeline Meyerowitz
