EDIT: Should’ve clarified something earlier. This story is not a stand-alone, all-inclusive analysis of male-female dynamics. I took a chunk of something Kelly wrote a long time ago and used it to illustrate the part of my talk where I encouraged guys to look beyond the surface. (see Kelly’s brilliant comment below)
My cousin Kelly (sister of Kyla and President of the Mary Lou Retton Club, among many other Very Impressive Titles) wrote this little story a few years ago. I edited it down (for time) and read it to the guys and girls at the Opposite Sex Convention last week.
They liked it. They got it.
(A bit of context–I cut out the beginning–Kelly works as a DJ at a cool Christian rock station in Southern Florida. Her station had just sponsored a 3-band concert. She had been hard at work all day and was cleaning up the aftermath.)
As I packed up, I hoped the hundreds of autograph-seeking fans would make it snappy.
Then just when the line had dwindled down to a few dozen, a cute female batted her eyelashes. There went my hopes for a speedy exit.
She approached one of the guitar players and asked him to autograph her poster. That seemed simple enough to me.
He flashed a smile I assume was reserved for special occasions—I had spent hours around the dude that day and never saw it. But the instant she sauntered up, gone was the brooding artist I had been dealing with, and in his place… Prince Charming. He was suddenly warm and attentive, and even asked the girl her name. “Hey you” had worked just fine for me, but someone this pretty clearly deserved a real title.
“Carrroleena,” she replied. And the earth stood still.
In their defense, two of the bands had traveled from northern states. I suppose this could’ve been the first time in their several national tours that they’d heard a Hispanic accent. If that was true, what happened next was completely excusable.
“Wow,” band guy breathed, “that is so beautiful.” His grin widened. “You’ve gotta say that again.”
Carolina giggled, her cheeks turning a ladylike shade of pink. “Carrroleeena.”
Band guy shook his head in amazement. I thought his cheeks might split open. “Dude,” he said, “come here, you have to hear her.”
His pal slowly glanced up, in no hurry to move from his chair. Then, spotting “her,” he did a double take. And in half the time it takes the average human to blink, he was at their side and all ears.
Several dozen “Carrroleena’s” later, the commotion attracted the attention of some of the other band boys. Soon a whole group of guys stood huddled around Carolina, hanging on her… one word.
“See? It sounds so much prettier when you say it.”
“Carrroleena” Call it lack of sleep, but this was getting old fast
“That is so gorgeous. Say it again?”
“Carrroleena” I considered hurling a microphone at his head
“Just one more time. Please?” I was about to intervene.
YAY! Her name is Carrrrrrrroleeeeeeeeeeena! Oh my, would you look at the time.
I am sure their interest had nothing to do with her tiny halter top. Or her perfect hips peeking out from above her ultra low rise skirt.
Speaking with the accent God gave you is quite a feat, so I get why seven grown men were so enraptured.
After 13 hours of hard work, I hadn’t heard a single thank-you, yet they were ready to nominate this chick as Woman of the Year because of the way she pronounced her name.
I gave my most encouraging smile to the girls in line behind Carolina. You know, the real girls. The ones whose hair was matted to their faces after four hours of jumping, screaming, and moshing. The ones who had opted for comfortable jeans and old band T-shirts instead of heels and a micro-mini.
Come to think of it, had Barbie even attended the show? She must have been watching the concert from a VIP box I didn’t know about. Or she’d been born without sweat glands.
I silently prayed that the rest of the girls wouldn’t notice the preferential treatment she was receiving, but the looks on their faces said it all: There is no way in the world we can compete with that.
I would love for a points system to be in play when a man is in search of Miss Right. Each woman would receive points for her various skills and accomplishments, and the woman with the most points, not the hottest legs, would win Dream Guy’s affection.
The scoring would work something like this: While Maya certainly knows how to fill out a sweater (100 pts), she has the cooking skills of doorknob. If you marry her, you will starve to death (-25,000 pts). Total: -24,900.
Eloise, though built like a beluga whale (-100 pts), excels in a variety of areas, including wit, temperament, housekeeping and common sense (50,000 pts). She also has the ability to hold meaningful conversations on topics other than this week’s shoe sales (5,000 pts). Total: 54,900.
Eloise is obviously the victor. But this type of scoring system would never work in the real world—because of who’s keeping score.
Before you write me off as bitter, hear me out. It isn’t Carolina’s fault that she’s cute and curvy. Sure, I have insecure moments. But overall, I can handle not being the hottest woman on earth. The problem is not pretty women.
The problem is men.
People love to say that true beauty is found on the inside. What they don’t tell us is that men don’t have x-ray vision. Men are visual creatures. They take notice of the packaging long before they can see the attractive qualities underneath. So your noble character is no match for perfectly sculpted thighs and short shorts.
I’m not man-bashing here. I like guys, and that’s how they were created. But the scale is tipped so far in favor of the gorgeous minority that the rest of us might as well pack it in and join a convent. Talk about pouring a truckload of salt on the gaping wound of average looks.
Thanks for sharing, Kel! You rock!