DON'T HATE US BECAUSE WE'RE BEAUTIFUL...
Your questions answered by
The Crabby Critic
My girlfriend is getting on my nerves. Every time we plan to go out it takes her forever to get ready and when she does she’s still not satisfied with how she looks. Once, I thought I’d kiss her as we were walking on the beach and she said, ‘Don’t. You’ll ruin my lip gloss.’
What gives? I don’t want a mannequin to hang out with. I want a woman. What’s your take?
Harvey in Palm Beach
Dear ‘Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Vain’:
It’s been my experience that most women veer on the side of sadomasochism where fashion is concerned. No other creature on the planet endures a more aggressive litany of consistently applied pain (plucking, waxing, suiting up in girdle and stilettos, various levels of cosmetic surgery, et al.) in the name of vanity – and enjoying every minute of the assault - than women.
I once yanked a wayward hair with a pair of tweezers that was growing above the shaving line on my left cheek and thought I saw visions of the holy virgin. I think I muttered an obscenity or two also.
My point is the self inflicted pain was enough to convince me. I’ve since learned to live with that reoccurring follicle. While it’s true that a certain share of the male population has recently embraced the phenomenon known as ‘metrosexualism,’ this motley troupe of aspiring hairless pretty boys remain a niche market and not the norm.
However, women almost universally apply acrylic varnish to their nails (which damages the natural enamel), reconstituted horse’s hooves to their lips (which is disgusting) and hair dye to their withering scalps (which has been proven to exacerbate the effects of dry scalp, psoriasis and has even been linked to rare forms of cancer)…all in their quest to remain twenty-one forever.
Aside: a fifty-two year old female painted up to mimic a twenty-something circus pony is still a fifty-two year old horsey whose slated herself for the ‘Sands-O-Time’ glue factory.
What I suspect you’ve realized is that the women you’re currently with has adopted and whole-heartedly embraced a level of high maintenance that will eventually consume her – if it already hasn’t.
She won’t change, Harvey.
Not for you or any other male, because she firmly believes in the twisted philosophies of painful beauty. I suppose you could put an ultimatum on the relationship but I suspect that will only strain your patience further and eventually lead to a split. I’m with you on this one, Harv’:
give me a gal who knows her own mind and doesn’t mind a light peck on the lips – even if they’re painted in two-tone Kentucky Derby.
My best advice to you, if you’re absolutely crazy in love with the girl, endure the pain along side her. But remember, you will always be second in line after her vane selfishness to look good. If you can live with that, then I suppose you will.
I only know from personal experience that I would never consider someone my soul mate who thought of Miss Clairol, Redkin, ‘Liz Arden, Revlon, Almay and my affections in that order.
The crabby critic
My daughter has been surfing the net for plastic surgery sites. When asked why, she told me that she was seriously considering breast augmentation and wanted to be better informed. My daughter’s only sixteen.
My wife says not to worry. The urge will pass. My wife has implants and my daughter knows it. I really don’t want my daughter to get breast implants. What should I do?
Chuck in Vancouver
Dear Inflatable & Co.:
There’s a strange dichotomy in your thought process that doesn’t give a hoot if your wife’s cleavage has been packed to maximum density, but emphatically doesn’t want his teenage daughter to share in mummy’s wealth of artificially enhanced womanhood.
My best guess – and it is just that…a guess – is that your wife had her implants before you met and so you had nothing to say on the matter, but didn’t mind enjoying them while you were dating. Now, you have a chance to save another family member from making the same mistakes your wife did – both of them.
My advice – use this opportunity to instill some constructive thought in your daughter’s noggin, rather than wasting your time attempting to dismantle the misguided determination she has already inculcated to have her chest turned into a pair of floatation devices.
I won’t ask how or why your daughter knows mom’s bongos aren’t real. But your daughter’s not stupid – at least, not on the surface. If she’s been surfing the net and doing other research, I’m sure she’s read about all the side effects and has convinced herself that either they don’t matter or do not apply directly to her situation. Such is the blind faith attached to youthful folly and ignorance.
If I were you, I would rather use your influence to illustrate the point that a woman should never be judged by the endowment of her cleavage, but her inner strength and beauty that are not immediately visible to the naked eye. These are qualities that radiate and permeate the everyday. They are much more valid and ultimately respected by men than a quality rack of perky headlamps – which merely draw immediate…and in most cases, unwanted…attention.
Point out to your daughter that men who desire her for her breasts will never respect, cherish or even consider her as much beyond their personal plaything or sex toy.
All this is a tad difficult for you to do with a straight face because you did marry her mother – big boobies and all. But if you’re serious about preventing your daughter from going under the knife you’ll have to be creative. Assess for her that when you met her mother for the first time it wasn’t her breasts that had you coming back for more.
It was her heart, spirit, mind, intelligence, wit, charm, tenderness, personality, conviction, aspirations, determination and reciprocated love for you that made you decide to slip a ring on her finger.
Finally, impart the wisdom that beauty is only skin deep.
But a quality and enduring life together requires both partners scratch well below the surface.
The crabby critic
I consider myself a heterosexual metrosexual. My family thinks I’m just plain weird. How can I get them to embrace my lifestyle?
Jerry in Toronto
Dear Big City Fluff-Ball:
The new-age definition of a ‘metrosexual’ is a young guy of means and varying sexual preference living in a metropolitan center, but who’s so much in love with himself that he’s managed to create an insular world in which only he reigns supreme as the be-all and end-all of his own pleasure dome.
I much prefer the classical definition: ‘narcissism’ - it is much more accurate in defining those sad and all consuming selfish limited boundaries you’ve constructed for yourself.
You can love yourself without transforming your image into that of a self absorbed egotist and superficially driven sport n’ shave Ken doll who considers it his greatest achievement to look and smell good on a Saturday night.
I’ve always said there’s only one thing more obvious and socially embarrassing than a woman who’s adopted the ‘don’t hate me because I’m beautiful’ outlook on life...
her male vanity counterpart.
I suspect that what you (and every other metrosexual out there) is trying to emulate is that tough/butch acting, yet slightly effeminate ‘image’ – like that of English soccer sensation, David Beckham who’s inadvertently become the poster child for the movement.
Yet, what most metrosexuals have forgotten is that Beckham isn’t just a pretty face. He’s a major player on the world stage of professional sports. His talents lay elsewhere.
To quote Judge Judy: beauty fades…dumb is forever.
Most metrosexuals are dumb…because they fail to recognize that stars like Beckham have more on their plate than just good looks.
Hence, metrosexualism is fast becoming a movement like 60s ‘mod’ or parodied in the same vein as Elvis and Marilyn Monroe impersonators.
Your family shouldn’t have to ‘embrace’ your lifestyle.
Clearly, you haven’t ‘embraced’ theirs.
They don’t even have to understand your mad drive to be outwardly pretty at the expense of being inwardly shallow.
What they should do – if they’re the right sort of bunch – is tolerate your desire to be different.
But you shouldn’t frown on them for not offering to come over next Friday to help you exfoliate and bikini wax and paint your toe nails ‘businessman blue.’
The crabby critic
@2006 (all rights reserved).