My stunning mother moved to America from Holland in 1947. She told me that when she first arrived in California she was convinced that she was ugly. She would walk down the street and not one man would whistle after her. This had never happened to her in Europe. By American standards she thought she was homely. It wasn’t until much later on that she realized American men rarely comment audibly on a beautiful woman as she walked down the street. That would be in bad taste. Classless? Or would it?
I have a friend from Guatemala. He is much younger than I am but always finds the time to flirt with me. He calls me “sunshine” and always has time to tease me and assure me that a great woman like me is hard to find.
I love him! I might have dog shit on my shoes, giant pimples on my nose, a middle age bulge, greasy hair, and be wearing mismatched baggy clothing. Still, I am a woman, and he notices!
I know he doesn’t find me superficially beautiful but still I know he sees something in me that was once there. He only met me recently but still I have the fantasy that he can see the fire in me, the sexy young girl I was once. It is almost as if by his very words he can coax the beauty out of me. It is like a dance. The more he flirts the more beautiful I become. Now what does that tell you?
It tells you that Guatemalan men are fabulous and I am more screwed up than I thought. Do I, a self-proclaimed feminist, really need an overly demonstrative bullshit artist to make me feel beautiful?
The answer is simple….Yes, I do.
Once, a long time age, Maurice Chevalier, playing a sexy playboy, crooned “Thank heaven for little girls.” He got that wrong.
“Thank heaven for men from Guatemala.”