Strutting Away With It

Yesterday, after we’d both spent the day lounging in the sun at various cafés, my flatmate regailed me with a story, the central feature of which was a pair of shorts. Not just any shorts, you know those cheeky-bum shorts? The ones that are cut so high that everyone can see the bit where your butt decides the join the rest of your leg? The stuff of teenage boys’ dreams? Yeah, those ones. But they were being worn by a rather chubby girl. My inner feminist said “good on her, she should wear what she likes”, but the image conscious, judgmental me said, “ugh, those should only be worn by models, or people who look like models.”

I do that all the time. I excuse people purely because they are attractive. Usually I would bemoan the low standards that those shorts are setting in terms of the attire we call clothing these days, but in a magazine? Fine. The cuter the guy, the more times he can be a douche-bag before I give him the flick. I don’t judge girls who rock bizarre piercings if they have the face for it. Put my friends in a group and they all look like something out of a J Crew catalogue. Tattoos are absolutely works of art as long as the person has style and good looks.

It’s no hidden fact that attractive people are more successful in their careers, are more easily respected, liked and admired. But what if I’m missing out on people who are interesting because I’m making that split-second decision and deciding they’re not attractive?

What if people are missing out on me because they don’t think I’m attractive???


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