I exposed my neuroses to the crude bloggings of Tucker Max at a delicate age. At 18, my perspective of beauty was even farther skewed than its current sick angle. I'd just arrived at college, and I'd just learned that when you leave your residence at night between Thursday and Saturday, it must be in a tube or halter top. Heels became a wardrobe regular. But I acknowledged my plainness. And I started to feel unwatched. A woman can learn a lot from Mr. Max. Mean, honest and brilliant at the same time. But mostly distracting and awful. In a humorous way. When I fell into his world of follies and stunts, my heart became exposed to how cold and objective men can really be. But mostly, I was driven mad by his Dating Application, which allowed him the strict critique of a potential hook-up (he later dubbed it his Hook-Up Application, being that dating was never the optimal target - guiltless sex was). One stipulation being this: To submit full-length photographs (since head-only is a sham and can hide the true fat) upon receiving an application approval rating. Since I read and mostly delighted the level of exposure he was willing to submit his victims as well as himself to for the sake of reality, I decided I should challenge his application to humor his project, at the very least. I rummaged around in My Photos for a couple of my hottest shots, accepted their potential for mockery and started filling out the monster test Tucker had promised to deliver to any woman willing to take her chances. Two versions appeared - one with multiple choice radial buttons and another with short answer. I chose the blue pill and went further down the rabbit hole, so far that I was giggling incessantly in my dorm room at the level of "player" spin I was putting on myself. My responses were sharp and witty, but not too slutty for fear of false advertisement. Once my words were sufficiently smithed, I sent my artfully wrapped, grammar-reviewed and innocent self to the Asshole.
Then I waited.
I just wanted validation - a response of any affirmation would be enough to say that a jerk hot-chicks-only man(boy) found a glimmer of attractiveness in me. I guess that's the habit of women. Not all, but a good portion. The worst portion, maybe. I went to bed that night imagining how fruitless any response would be, anyways. Even though he was in Chicago at the time, I still hadn't even seen a penis in person before. The playing field may have been level in Internet Land, but my bark was way bigger (and sexier) than my bite. If this guy decided to communicate that he was willing to dismantle my long-constructed dignity with a one night stand of his drunken slurs and hateful man love, I'd have to swiftly expose him to the truth. Those photos were taken in very specific lighting and I'm a virgin writer with a clever, sexually-frustrated mind. Apologies, Your Douchebagness. I idolized his harshness. In fact, I worshipped it. Before him, I lived in a world where I made excuses for myself and held grudges against guys who didn't reciprocate feelings/attraction for me. "I'm a great catch," I'd tell myself after no-date dances and makeout-less nights. "You're pretty, Sara. Really. Guys are just dumb," the Best Friend Love Squad would repeat over and over and over again. But not Tucker Max. TM defines, and even rates, attractiveness on his website. Of course the rubric is based upon looks, and when he manages to make room for the personality/intellect portion, he clarifies that Miss Applicant need not apply for banter, since her odds of amusing him are still improbable. Viewing all of these things as the perfect layout for Judgment, I set out to achieve a real, measurable answer.
And then I got it.
"You've piqued my interest. Send photos."
Then I did. And this was one of them:
A photo of my floormate Marie and I at some Jungle-themed student government-hosted freshman dance. A time when I actually wore short skirts and high heels and thought I had at least a good portion of IT going on. I picked this photo based on two things: (1) Boobs, and (2) Shininess of Hair. And sadly, because it was the skinniest image of me on record at the time. Creepy to think I hated the way I looked then. I'd pay good money to go back to then. Anyways, this was the glory shot, added to another that I cannot locate at the moment. These two 18 year old photos earned me a decent, if not surprising rating. I don't have the exact e-mail (to prove), but his Simon Cowell-esque comeback was something very close to the following: You're a 3. Lose 15 pounds and you'd be a 4. I did, for an instant, suck up the suckiness of his weight loss remark, but took it knowing it was a part of the gig. If not the part of the gig, as far as my teasing ass was concerned. Please, let me give you the descriptions of my range:
"3-star (aka Decent or attractive): Acceptable to be seen with in public. She is average when sober, but looks MUCH better after only about three beers. You'll admit to your friends that you're fucking her, but you still make fun of her behind her back, and tell them lies about her sexual prowess and bi-sexual tendencies to justify your dealings with her. She's not bad overall, and will do if nothing better comes along, but could be left in a heartbeat if the opportunity for a hot chick comes along. Sadly, most guys end up having to settle for a 3-star, as these are the most prevalent type of women.
4-star (aka Girlfriend material): This is the girl that is very attractive, but not super hot. You will be seen with her in public at any point in the day, even before drinking. You think twice before ditching this girl for a hot chick, especially if she has special powers (tongue ring, double jointed, etc.). Ascension to the 4-star level can only be attained through use of a petition. The candidate must secure 75% of the vote from those polled. (NOTE: Bonus points only make a candidate petition eligible. She still must garner 75% of the vote.)"
Some may read material like this coming from an intelligent and selective woman like myself and go "Uhhh, Sara? You don't want to be with a guy like that, so why does it matter? Guys like that are JERKS." But they are who is out there. That's my answer. I don't hold it against men that they are seeking genetically beneficial and socially stratifiable traits in women. (Psst. Ladies, we do it, too.) I suppose I can attribute a lot of my self-loathing to my delayed and often lazy methods of arriving to the Four Star status Tucker laid out for me six years ago. Between you and I, Internet - I always secretly knew and have known that first-glance meetings are a matter of the eye, not the heart. And I also always felt and do feel a sense of pride in the fact that I can date attractive and good men at this weight but could kick down doors and step all over hot guys at my Four Star weight. Somewhere inside my Cheesy Gordita Crunch exterior (that's the soft chalupa tortilla part), there is prowess possibility, and unleashing it is my longest standing project - ever. It's easy to step back and blame oneself for not attracting the right kind of people or to point fingers at the wrong kind of people for missing out on a good thing, but that route is a dead end. Now that I've truly come to terms with this collective rubric, I want to stay as high on the scale as I can. And if my objective bar-hopping male-perspective peak was over 15 pounds ago, it's time to increase my odds. One of the greatest compliments of my life was the subtle flattery and simultaneous rejection from this Internet icon. It did teach me early on that the un-bridled male affection leans toward immature pleasures and unsubstantial women. And it taught me that while jerk guys have a hotness rubric, Real Men just want someone who loves her body, is confident, has a sense of humor and is intelligent. We all have a rubric, but that doesn't mean we all have good standards. I see the value in being hot, and how much hotter it is to be more than that at the end of the day.
I think that's who I am. Somewhere inside here.
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