I was not born distractingly sexy or beautiful.
Water doesn’t ripple down my abs and I can barely use a garden hose, but every now and then I look at people that are, for lack of better words, objectified, surface worshiped, and I wonder…
Last week I was awakened by some obnoxious radio announcer in my alarm clock that was giggling about the annual Fireman Auction in Phoenix. According to Miss Peppy, you can bid on a date with a single fire fighter and all of the money goes to charity.
I immediately think…awkward. It’s some consolation that the money goes to a good cause, but lordy I’m sure there are some really interesting people bidding on these poor guys.
It may be that fire fighters love the attention and the oohing and ahhing. I will admit the navy blue shirt is a favorite of mine, but when I see the men and women fighting these recent fires in San Diego, there’s a conflict of images.
Not everyone can do what fire fighters do. They are physically lovely because their lives depend on that strength, it’s the by product of their job. Even with all the images of these fires, and the dangerous work done, they are often relegated to eye candy.
I wonder if that smarts a little, after years of training and being put in harms way, to be hanging on a calendar or a physical specimen at an auction. I suppose no one really wants to hear the horrors of the job, so the biceps prevail?
Maybe they love it, maybe they don’t care, but I feel like I would.
A few nights ago, while I was searching for the season finale of Once Upon a Time for Maggie, there was a documentary on Marilyn Monroe. Must have been her diaries because different actors were reading what sounded like her words. I didn’t watch much, and I’m not really a Marilyn fan, but most of her thoughts seemed to be about being taken seriously.
The desire for credibility is a little silly if you’re standing over a grate while your skirt blows up, but many said Marilyn really was a great actress. I wonder if she just gave up after a while and embraced what people wanted to see in her.
What must it be like when people stop at the surface, fall in love with the packaging, the image and never bother with the rest?
If that’s truly all they have to offer and they’re happy, I suppose it’s okay, but what if there’s more? What if beneath the pretty shell is serious or scared, smart or a multitude of other facets and no one cares, no one wants it?
It seems sad. Certainly not being bullied about your handicap or weight or your less than lovely face sad, but sad in a different way that I’d never considered before.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Beauty Sleep.