For those of you who haven’t read Samantha Brick’s article in the Daily Mail this week entitled ‘There are downsides to looking this pretty’: Why women hate me for being beautiful, do so immediately. In fact, just to make it easier for you, here’s a link: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.html. There has been a surprising amount of international backlash after this article appeared on-line, with readers claiming Brick was ‘delusional’, ‘superficial,’ ‘a total egomaniac,’ and so forth, but for me, reading the article was like turning on a light switch and seeing the world in a whole new fluorescent glow. You see, I, too, have often been discriminated against because of my looks.
Many of you may be unaware of this, but I am actually very good-looking. Some of you might be thinking to yourselves—But, Elizabeth, I’ve seen you, and you’re at best average, and that’s on a VERY good day. Luckily for me after reading this article, I now know that you only think such things because you’re jealous. You may not know it, but you are. And it turns out it’s a vast global conspiracy. All my life I’ve been treated like an average schlump because everyone is so consumed with envy at my sheer stunning-ness that you can’t help but try to tear me down. Even cameras and mirrors have thrown themselves into the fray, fabricating my supposed ‘faults’ and ‘flaws’ with relish. And all those times my jeans have spontaneously shrunk themselves to make me feel fat? Nice try, Levis. I’m on to you, too.
Everything just makes so much more sense to me now. Everyone who has ever disliked me or claimed that I was “weird”? Jealous. Those guys who ‘pretended’ to bypass me at the clubs to flirt with my supposedly ‘prettier’ friends? Intimidated. And, let’s face it, jealous. What a relief to now realize that the various good-looking men who have walked by me with thin, supermodel-esque women on their arms without giving me so much as a second glance only did so because they were so overcome with their attraction to me that they couldn’t so much as look at me without revealing their true feelings. Wow. WOW. It isn’t easy having this much power over men, I must say. But with great power comes great responsibility. And even greater hair.
But the point of this article is not to make you feel even more insignificant than you already inevitably do in my presence. I’m only human, just like you—but an advanced model. Think of me as the Lucky Charms to your Marshmallow Mateys. The Community to your Whitney. Not better, just different, in a superior way. And just in case you think my life is all lapping in a luxurious pool of gold with my attractive manservant Felipe, let me assure you, I have to trudge through life just like the rest of you sad normals. Have I ever won the lottery, or been given spontaneous presents of money? Do men lift me on their shoulders and carry me from place-to-place like some Greek goddess whose feet are too holy to touch the ground? Does Hugh Jackman return my phone calls? An emphatic no to all, and I think you can guess why. JEALOUSY.
Maybe someday there will be a place in the world for us beautiful people (I say ‘us’ in case people like Eduardo Verastegui or either of the Hemsworth brothers are reading; otherwise, you should probably assume that this doesn’t refer to you). But until then, I can hold my head high as I go through the world knowing that I’m just as good as anyone else. Only better. And you can hate me if you like, because now I know you’re only doing it because I’m so ridiculously good-looking. Which, if you think of it, is really extraordinarily philanthropic of me, to give a gift like ME to this sorry, ugly world full of sad, ugly people.
You’re welcome.
Jealous. . .?
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