One of my neighbors was a 22-year-old Barbie Doll who only wore trendy neon-colored workout clothes two sizes too small or, when she felt like dressing up, a bikini top and cutoffs. She was aggressively blonde and always displaying the merchandise. If Dolly Parton had channeled her creative energy into exercise, instead of music, she would have looked like my neighbor Barbie Doll.
At the other end of the spectrum, there was the Muslim wife and mother of two young kids who always wore a floor-length black burqa with a small rectangular slit that only revealed her eyes. I never saw her in anything else, even while she was doing laundry or just taking her trash to the garbage chute. Burqa lived at one end of the hall, while Barbie Doll was at the other. And then there's Maude -- smack dab in the middle -- harshly judging both of them for the same thing: dressing as female caricatures in deference to men. I was having none of it -- this dressing-to-please-men nonsense.
I viewed Barbie Doll with disdain because I assumed she spent lots of time and energy in exchange for male approval for something as superficial as her looks. I judged Burqa for covering up her entire body, with the presumption that she was doing it to please her husband. It was a hot summer in LA, and here was Burqa dressed head to toe in a voluminous black robe made of polyester. It seemed like a ridiculous accommodation to her husband's presumed needs entirely at the expense of her own.
Truth was I was wearing my own particular version of a burqa: baggy unisex beige clothing from L.L. Bean that did a better job of camouflaging my body than a burqa. I was hiding in plain sight, and no one was interested in looking. When I think back to that time, even at 34, I felt invisible in that same way that many American women over 50 feel.
Back then I thought I was lucky to be married to an "enlightened" husband who didn’t care about my looks. I had deluded myself with the smug idea that we had a love based on things superior to the raw impetuousness of physical attraction. In the aftermath of my divorce, I realized just how much I had overestimated my ex’s esteem for me. Not only did he not care about what I looked like, it turned out he didn’t give a crap about my other “less superficial” qualities either.
So, now guess who's dressing in a way that (hopefully) gets her noticed. Not traffic-stopping noticed -- just a bit of a lingering glance noticed. Nothing dramatic. Nothing Italian. Despite wanting to think otherwise, I've come to believe that physical attraction is one of several important ingredients in the glue that keeps a good relationship together. If it weren't so important, wouldn't we *all* be dressing in unisex baggy L.L. Bean clothing in various shades of beige?
At the other end of the spectrum, there was the Muslim wife and mother of two young kids who always wore a floor-length black burqa with a small rectangular slit that only revealed her eyes. I never saw her in anything else, even while she was doing laundry or just taking her trash to the garbage chute. Burqa lived at one end of the hall, while Barbie Doll was at the other. And then there's Maude -- smack dab in the middle -- harshly judging both of them for the same thing: dressing as female caricatures in deference to men. I was having none of it -- this dressing-to-please-men nonsense.
I viewed Barbie Doll with disdain because I assumed she spent lots of time and energy in exchange for male approval for something as superficial as her looks. I judged Burqa for covering up her entire body, with the presumption that she was doing it to please her husband. It was a hot summer in LA, and here was Burqa dressed head to toe in a voluminous black robe made of polyester. It seemed like a ridiculous accommodation to her husband's presumed needs entirely at the expense of her own.
Truth was I was wearing my own particular version of a burqa: baggy unisex beige clothing from L.L. Bean that did a better job of camouflaging my body than a burqa. I was hiding in plain sight, and no one was interested in looking. When I think back to that time, even at 34, I felt invisible in that same way that many American women over 50 feel.
Back then I thought I was lucky to be married to an "enlightened" husband who didn’t care about my looks. I had deluded myself with the smug idea that we had a love based on things superior to the raw impetuousness of physical attraction. In the aftermath of my divorce, I realized just how much I had overestimated my ex’s esteem for me. Not only did he not care about what I looked like, it turned out he didn’t give a crap about my other “less superficial” qualities either.
So, now guess who's dressing in a way that (hopefully) gets her noticed. Not traffic-stopping noticed -- just a bit of a lingering glance noticed. Nothing dramatic. Nothing Italian. Despite wanting to think otherwise, I've come to believe that physical attraction is one of several important ingredients in the glue that keeps a good relationship together. If it weren't so important, wouldn't we *all* be dressing in unisex baggy L.L. Bean clothing in various shades of beige?
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