Act I

Susan Boyle made world headlines this week for two seemingly opposing traits: 1) ugly woman, 2) with extraordinary talent.

Forgive me if I offend you.  I do not believe this stranger we all now feel we know actually is ugly.  I believe the world is still shocked at her inner beauty, in spite of her average wrapper, because much of the world is, in fact, just that shallow.

Let’s look at the stats:

• 40-something, or “middle-aged”
• Single
• If not overweight, frumpy
• Double chin
• Village hair dresser
• Innocent life entertained by caring for others, including a dying parent

Pardon me for being defensive, but this is a little too close to home.  Save for the double chin, we are eerily similar.

So that’s it.  I am defensive about Susan Boyle.  I speak in defense of her myself all ‘real’ women like us.  I speak on behalf of the average woman, the woman who dares to defy the beauty myth, who suggests beauty lies inside (the vocal chords, the soul, the inner being) and not our outer shells, the relative beauty of which is a complete fluke, based on our genes and the styles of the times.  It’s a crap shoot.

Wow, I’m angry.

A friend sent a link to the famed audition footage yesterday.  I finally sat down to watch the whole thing and was more moved than I expected.  At times I was embarrassed to be so moved.  I mean, could I, too, be shallow?  Am I really just as surprised that she has it in her?  No, in the end I finally felt pretty good about being pretty pissed that everyone in the world immediately dismissed the crone and subsequently fell out of their proverbial seats to learn that she has some beauty after all.

And who defines beauty anyway?

We all do.  Only I prefer to be self-righteous and angry.  THEY do.  Bastards.

I sent this friend, herself in her 40s when married and pretty much average on the outside and totally gorgeous on the inside, a thank-you e-mail.

Real women unite.

(And could an externally beautiful woman not be real?)

And who defines beauty anyway?

[You can see the trap here.  Round and round I go.]

Act II

I dove headlong into Dad’s estate for several weeks.  Then the adrenaline of the illness and death wore off.  I became as stagnant as a subdivision retention pond on a summer day.  Icky, stinky and slow.  I took five weeks’ vacation from working the big puzzle of Dad-dom.

Three pieces of the puzzle are his car, his truck and my car.  The fourth piece is how the vehicles relate.  Since the beginning I have been pretty sure I’ll keep his car (which my sisters gave to me) and his truck (if I can get it started).  I will sell my car.

Here’s the summary on my automobile:

1.  It’s beautiful.  It is HOT.  It drives like a race car.  It is five-speed (tasteful) sex on wheels.

2.  The mileage stinks, and I have grown to resent the beast in general.

Here’s Dad’s car:

1.  Homely yet strangely comfortable

2.  Absolutely free of charge as it is paid in full; worse, conservative

A stranger-than-fiction truth occurred this week.  All three vehicles’ registrations expired with the State of North Carolina.  What are the odds?  The plan was to fix his car first since it’s the only car I now drive.  However, an insurance glitch with the state led to a crisis for my car.  It had to be fixed.  I have now proven I have always had insurance, even though the state denied my registration because of some phantom lapse in coverage.  I’m legal.  The whole drama got me back in my old car and took Dad’s car to his mechanic’s garage for an inspection.  (It was a memorable week of automobilia.)

Two days ago I found myself staring at an old love, my silver speedster.  She’s a real beauty.

And that was the first thought – what a beautiful car.

The second thought was the acknowledgment that it is indeed a thrilling spin around the block.  There’s nothing more boring than being driven by your automatic transmission and nothing more thrilling than driving your manual transmission.  They are not even similar activities.  All that relates them is the insurance you pay for either ride.  Different ball games altogether.

For the first time in weeks I was actually conflicted over which to sell and which to keep.  One has good mileage and is paid in full.  The other is expensive to maintain yet pretty.

Tough choice.

I thought of Susan Boyle as I stood in front of Daniel Bros. Exxon staring at my long-lost love.  I was instantly ashamed.

I picked the geezerly brown family sedan.  Sex on wheels hits craigslist this weekend.

Act III

The Viola sisters (my dogs) are on the waiting list for a new puppy, their own puppy.  Just recently I was offered this little nugget of puppyhood.  The one thing I’m sure of is a girl is in our future.  A girl became available.  I, Ms. Less Than Shallow, turned her down.  She is not the right color.  She is not cute enough for my girls.

There are so many problems with this scenario.  I am a racist hater of ugly girl dogs.

Fast forward one week, and the homely double-chinned never-been-kissed puppy that resembles Susan Boyle is now a graceful swan.  Darned if puppydoodle is not only the best looking pup in the bunch, she is the only really beautiful dog the breeder has for sale.  She is special.

Now that she is looking more appealing, she is more appealing to me.

Really?  Really??

Just last year after Button, the best dog on the planet had surgery, her little face was shaved by the groomer.  My precious Teddy-bear dog was instantly more ugly than the Taco Bell dog meets an alien.  Homely city.  She looked rough.

And was she any different inside?  Well hell, of course not.  Or maybe she was more soulful because of the external “issues.”  The increase in the gap between her inner and outer beauty made her soul shine more brightly.  Button was on fire with goodness.

Act IV

I pondered the puppy and even talked to the breeder while waiting for dinner this evening in a town just up the road.  Durham seemed too much tonight.  There’s a 90 percent chance I would see something or someone that relates to work.  I wanted an escape.  For the first time in the nearly 12 months I have lived here, I drove north to a tiny town to find food in order to escape the small city to my south.  I wanted anonymity.

Puppydoodle has a date with a potential family tomorrow afternoon.  They are likely to choose her because they want a female dog.  This is fine.  I firmly believe the right dog will happen at the right time.  If not now, May.  I trust the universe.

My mind drifted to my surroundings as I ate.  Everyone in this sleepy, country town is…different in a way.  They are plain.  Homely.  Double-chinned.  Many overweight.  Some have mullets for crying out loud.

Self-righteousness set in as I realized how inadequate I feel at times in my own land.  Yet in this foreign land I stand out as distinctively different – cultured and perhaps even pretty.

WHEN DID THIS UGLINESS CREEP INSIDE ME?  Oh good gosh, in choosing my dinner destination I was simply thinking that I would feel comfortable spending time among real people – just plain, good people.  There are so many things wrong with this scenario.  (This thought keeps nipping me in the butt today like the yippy little dog that it is.  Yip, yip, yip.  Grrrrr.)

Act V

Full of shame and guilt, embarrassed for people to imagine my shallow thoughts, I left this strange land for home.  As I backed out of my parking space, I looked to the left.  There in the front seat of the neighboring car was a buff and white parti-colored cocker spaniel.  This is significant because that’s nearly the color of the mother of the cutest puppy in dogdom.  The breeder’s Web site touts the parti-colored mother’s beauty as proof the babies will be gorgeous and are to be desired.

I stared at the back of the dog’s head until it felt my presence.  It turned around and looked at me as if to say the most appropriate thing to the likes of my ugly-hating self: BITCH.

© Mitzi Viola, 4/17/09