Last week I arrived at work a little early. (We have staff meetings Monday and Thursday, and I bike down... and then back up, which is the challenging part.) It had been raining, and was rather cold, and I'd left Evan's ear warming thing in Scott's car, so I wrapped my scarf around my head to assuage my ears a bit. I knew it looked silly, but 1) nobody was there, not that I really care about my appearance (right?) and 2) damn was I cold!
Then our Art Director - slash - Artist, Ann, came in. She gave me an odd look, then realized why I was wearing a scarf around my head, and smiled.
"You know what you look like," she said. "You know that painting, the 'Death of Marot' or something? Where the guy's in the bathtub or his bed and he's leaning over with his arm sort of draped..." -- well, she didn't put it that way, but I'm trying to describe it, ok? -- "Anyways, with that scarf around your head, that's what you look like."
A bit of a weird incident, certainly, but nothing exciting, really. But then here's where it gets interesting enough to put into a diary entry: she said, by way of further explanation, "It's because you've got those, you know, classic features."
Classic?
The fact is, I don't think anybody (other than dedicated girlfriends, and therefore biased observers) has ever given me a description of my looks. I have had to go by indirect reactions, unconscious responses, to figure out what I look like to others. Never having had crowds of women fawn over me, I've always assumed I'm not gorgeously handsome. Having had only a few shrieks of terror sound upon my arrival to a room, I assume I'm not quite hideously disfigured. I've always figured I was somewhere in between.
But figuring is dissatisfying, usually. Details, details, details are what makes the world go round, or at least much of my world, particularly my stories.
Although, as a side note, I find I rarely satisfactorily explain the physical appearance of my characters... I'm much better at the emotional and active description. I suspect this has to do with myself not being focused on appearances, or at least the way that normal mortals seem gung-ho at perceiving appearances.
Anyways. My point is, hearing those words come out of Ann's mouth was illuminating and downright pleasing. I've had girlfriends (and my mom, of course) say nicer things, but never before have I heard such a thing from an unbiased critical observer.
Not only is Ann an artist, and therefore dedicated to appearances, at least to some degree, but she is also not the kind of person to go about avoiding criticism at all costs. Which is to say, on both counts, I can really truly respect her opinion, and have a hefty amount of faith in its veracity.
So. I have classic features. At least, to Ann I do.
What is classic? Because, to be honest, my memory of that particular painting that she mentioned is of a relatively ugly dude... not that I'm insisting that I'm ugly, just that I'm hoping he's not the paragon of classical features, and I hope mine are a little closer to the paragon than to him, as I remember him.
But that doesn't actually matter so much. I'm more curious why I/we don't hear more unbiased opinions on our appearance. Is it because we set so much store by the way we look, that our egos are eternally bruised by a callow remark, or a harsh reality?
Well, then. Straight to the point, eh?
But I want truth. I want to know what I look like. Hell, I also want to know what kind of person I come across as, when I first meet a person and when I'm acquaintances for a long time. What, if anything, do people who saw me perform with OoC and Ecphonema, but didn't otherwise know me, think of me?
I always wondered what people thought of me as a frosh... I tried so hard to be a certain person, and I enjoyed it so much... and worried about it, and felt alone and never knew if anybody understood... not that that's a whole lot different than the way I feel now, at least sometimes. But I remember wishing I could go up to people and say, "What do you think of me? What do I look like, what do I act like?" I wanted to know if I was being who I wanted to be.
I don't worry about that quite so much as I did then -- although I wonder if that's not because I simply don't meet new people much anymore, so I don't worry about how I come across -- but the questions remain at the back of my skull, along with memories of short hair, real rainstorms, and the experience of math being fun.
It's strange how, the minute real attraction enters a relationship, I stop being able to acknowledge the other person's opinion about my appearance. Okay, that's an extreme statement, and not fully true. What I mean is, what they think still matters to me, but it no longer seems... accurate? unbiased? clear? based in reality? untouched by the rose-tinted glasses of love?
Yes. That last one.
I wonder why that is. Is it because love is fundamentally an emotional state, and the body and the face suddenly depart the equation once love is in place? Er, no... I don't believe that, actually. Love has as much to do with the body as the heart and the mind... and the soul, if you feel there's something missing there. So, toss that theory. Next...
I think I know what it is. Maybe. It might be that, simply, I don't feel like anyone has ever described me, in detail, without steeping their words in the broth of romance and adoration. And even that has been relatively rare. "You're handsome" is not a detailed description, and won't hold up in my court of whatever my court is of. Unfortunately.
There are days when I wish I could swallow that statement hook, line, and sinker, and plunge to the depths of my soul, and bury it in the deep, muddy sands of belief, and never fear it turning back up on the shores of my conscious mind, bloated and diseased and deadly false.
But mostly, all I want is to know the truth. It's why I actually really love pictures of myself -- I must admit, I am a narcissist, something which I don't think anybody knows, unless they've never told me about it. I love the truth of the camera... I don't claim to be handsome, I know I'm not, but... I like my look. I enjoy the dramas and comedies that play out on my visage, like miniature Shakespeare... or, better, condensed life.
I don't know what all that means. Am I an egotist? Well, sort of. Narcissist? In a way. Handsome? Not until somebody sends me into Backwards Land.
But, hey. Such is life. Not many men are actually handsome.
There are tons and tons of beautiful women out there, though, which sometimes confuses me. Why aren't there an equivalent number of good-looking men? Is it simply that I don't understand what makes a physically attracive male? (Don't get me wrong folks, I know I'm an emotionally attractive male, or at least, I strive to be, seeing as it's something I can actually control, unlike my treasonous looks.)
And, at least on some level, it never really surprises me to hear about another woman deciding she's attracted to women rather than men. I LOVE women! Why shouldn't everybody?
Not that that makes it much easier to deal with when three of my eight ex-girlfriends are themselves lesbians. Hordes of self-doubts and whispered fears swarm my soul when I think about that... and a few strong confidences, too... but anyways... that's a topic for a previous entry, and a few thousand dollars worth of future therapy, eh?
What do I look like?
The mirror knows. And one day, I will too.