Don’t be fooled by the packaging.That beautiful blonde
Has the same insides
As you.
One person wins the
Genetic Beauty Lottery.
Most of us don’t.
Can you really stomach adoring someone
Purely because math favored them?
Yes.
Yes we can.
And evolutionary science
Has many good rationalizations
For why we should...
Measurements are fertility.
Size is virility.
These are not the shallows of attraction.
These are legitimate reproductive indicators.
So while every desperate bachelor
Pines for the fetching brunette with fair skin,
The lackluster and most beautiful thing for your life
Sits alone and dejected
In a shadowy corner.
She’s the one
That would show you love.
She’s the ally
That would stand at your side.
She is the force
That would electrify your breath.
She is the revelation
That would reflect all your wonderful back onto you.
She would be your Mary, she would be your Rock.
But, no.
Her wrapper is all wrong.
It doesn't loosen the collar
Of the salivating animal curled up in every man.
For all our sophistication,
Big thought,
And personal evolution,
We are slaves to appearance,
Slaves to our fear of real love.
Real love robs men
Of our fantasy of love
In which a woman is pure and perfect:
Savior, muse, and higher-than-reality inspiration.
Real love takes a chair
And crashes it against every precious, delicious dream
That has kept us alive when life was brutal
And we needed something
Transcendent and Perfect
Like a hope forever beyond reach...
Something that would keep us trying, coping,
And somehow prove compensating
For all our tears.
That homely-valuable woman at the bar
Who's had an empty stool beside her all night
Is ready to listen and understand with a wine red heart.
But in the self-contempt
From all our weakness and failings,
The last thing we could bare to see
Is another shame-filled, maddeningly imperfect, but unquestionably beautiful face
Looking back at us
And into us.
