A Pinch of Salt

I’ve always known that I enjoy the attentions of men. When a nice man pays me a genuine compliment I am momentarily drunk. I suspend myself between feeling guilty and feeling superior to everyone on the planet. I'm giddy. Its nice. When I am called sexy by someone whom I  consider to be sexy, it is an exciting thing indeed. Occasionally, it can be just what the doctor ordered. Other times, it can make me ill.

I discovered the ugly side of this truth at 3am last Friday morning. I was wearing an officer’s hat, an evening dress, and was sitting between my best friend, one Captain, one Leftennant and a Private in the officer’s barracks next to Buckingham palace. I had managed to invite myself along to a private party with a friend, and we had snuck into a separate lounge as an intimate party to discuss the three things contraband at all sophisticated social gatherings: religion, politics and philosophy. Considering the time, and my garb, sophistication was not my agenda.

Freddie the Leftennant was tall, dark, handsome and ready to die for his country at a moments notice. He commanded the Malbec to his lips and said to the Captain, in my direction:

“God! Can you believe just how sexy that girl is?! Its not fair!’

Despite the fact that I was midway through a discussion of the teleological argument concerning the creation of the universe, I didn’t mind the interruption one bit. (I have been known to bore leaves from trees before). I blushed, and couldn’t remember the last time a man I didn’t know was so forthcoming with compliments. The fact that he wasn’t selling me something, or trying to touch me made it all the more surprising. The thing that made my cheeks turn red was my proximity to my best friend, all 5ft 9' of her too. Let me put it this way, at school I was ‘the friend’, and she was ‘the girl’.

But tonight! Tonight I felt like the girl.

I smiled back at him, laughed, and attempted to continue with what I was saying, trying desperately not to look so crimson. Within five minutes Freddie interrupted me again;

“You need compliments don’t you Sarah?”

I stopped. Everyone stopped. The atmosphere immediately became foreign and unwelcoming. I felt hot all over. And not in a good way. I’d always appreciated compliments, but never before did I consider myself dependent on them. Until that moment.

“Yes, I suppose I do”. I murmured. This man had killed people for crying out loud! What was I suppose to say to that exactly?

One minute I’m the girl, the next I’m the fool. I just didn’t get it. Silently I watched Freddie turn all of his attentions towards my best friend instead. As history repeated itself, I made sense of the situation by putting it down to a pick up ‘tactic’. Divide and conquer. All that of nonsense.

The fact of the matter is I didn’t actually care about Freddie at all. What I did care for was that he had exposed the horrible truth behind the girls who grew up awkwardly, and those that side stepped the pubescent gracelessness that I was forced to endure. I’m talking about the girls who have always been genuinely, generously and periodically complimented, and those that always got told ‘well done for doing well at school’. I.e. my best friend, and me.

Within 5 minutes I had seen my sexuality placed upon a pedestal, and hacked down to shreds. I am now at an age where I know that looks aren’t everything, but apparently, I still give an impression to the contrary. As I sat, crucifying my personality and festering in rejection, I wondered if I had ever really outgrown my puberty.

Hear me out: girls who have always been treated as if they have good looks, don’t inherently search for that kind of treatment from others, because they know (subconsciously or not) that they will always recieve it. Whereas the girls who grew up scarcely receiving such compliments, are apparently (and obviously) still seeking that very same, illusive thing years later.

Apparently this is so obvious, so apparent, that even a complete stranger can pick up on it. Freddie, if he should ever think of me again, won’t remember my passions and interests, my sense of humor, the fact I smoked more that night than any of the other officers combined (quite an achievement) or even the way I looked. Instead he will remember the sad and simple fact that I was the girl who needed him to think I looked nice.  That’s one hangover that isn’t worth the night before.

After consideration, I still don’t quite know what it is about me that made him think that. Maybe I just shouldn’t care so much.

The problem is, I never, ever want to project myself to the world in a way that shows people so blatantly that I was an awkward and insecure teen. And that maybe I still am. Not only that, but what does that say about the God I profess to love? Where does he fit into this pattern? Isn't he suppose to make me feel sexy? 

That sounds strange. 
But I know it shouldn't. 
 
The next time a stranger pays me an aesthetic compliment, I’ll take it with a pinch of salt.

Conclusion:

1)   Never trust the words of a drunk Leftennant you’ve just met.

2)   Discern insults and compliments in the same way.

3)   Lets all compliment each other more, so this will cease to be a dependency issue. If we take the power of the compliment back from those who abuse it, we will never trip again.