“A constant given of the universe—only the pretty, non-average get picked, even for death.”
–Elizabeth Arnott
I love to people watch. I never realize how starved I am for variety until I leave my small town. Here I see the same few people every day: the guy with big muscles and tiny head, the cop with the nice calves, the man I call “Moustache Ride” because he looks like the type that would offer one.
When I am out of town I’m mostly looking at outfits. In the airport there was a girl who was wearing a small sweater/baggy jeans combo that looked perfect for flying. I also notice women who are really pretty. Like one who had perfectly highlighted, curled long hair. I thought I was doing a great job wearing jeans instead of pajama bottoms to fly. I didn’t think about my hair.
I only ever notice women who look better than me. I once spent a whole Disney vacation comparing myself to pretty moms and coming up short. Comparison really is the thief of joy…and a little bitch.
I was sweating my ass off in a crowded science museum when I realized there were plenty of regular ladies there. I just only noticed the pretty ones. And then I started thinking about Mid Privilege.
This is when your looks are mid. Like, 3-6 out of 10. Not, I can’t leave the house without a paper bag over my head, or Heidi Klum. Just…regular. At first I didn’t recognize this as a privilege. Everyone wants to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I wouldn’t mind making money off my face instead of my brain. Thinking is tiring. Some ladies complain about cat-calling or being told to smile. Some of my friends just want to run in peace without being whistled at. One time I went for a run and was woofed at.
But there are benefits of mid-ness. Especially a middle-aged mid. This is mostly the cloak of invisibility. I can pretty easily float through life without being noticed, mainly. Which means I can go to Wal-Mart wearing Tweety Bird pajama pants and dance around in the aisles (they play some real bangers on Wal-Mart radio). Unless I’m flashing a slab of pasty-white, cellulite-ridden thigh, I’m forgettable. This would make me well suited for a life of crime, if not for the Catholic guilt. Also, even though you could shoplift without being noticed, you really shouldn’t. If only because you don’t want to be one of those 40-something women criminals on the local news. In your Tweety Bird pants.
The mid-ness would make me better suited to the CIA, and who knows? Maybe I am a secret agent. But I can’t tell you. I always wanted to have the power of invisibility, because I like to eavesdrop. Turns out I never needed it. The folks in Harry Potter I’m sure don’t need their Invisibility Cloak once they turn 40. Honestly I would totally read that book.
Mid Privilege is really obvious in the backyard birds. The ladies are dull and really unnoticeable. There could be 10-15 going after birdseed on the ground while I’m busy looking at the one Purple (red) Fitch on the feeder. The ladies are bland so they can survive, while the males have all the beautiful, but dangerous luck. Sort of like human life. But I digress.
That’s the obvious benefit of mid-ness: avoiding death. Yeah, you’re too plain to be noticeable by modeling agencies and casting agents, but you’re also under the radar of people who want to kill you!
Look at horror movies: the pretty girls always die first. Who survives? Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Neve Campbell survived through SEVEN Scream movies. These ladies are by no means ugly, but they weren’t cast in the Barbie movie. You have to notice Sigourney and Neve to appreciate them, whereas Margot Robbie is just in your face, making you feel bad about yourself. But you know who else is noticing Margot? The bad guys. Which is why you get to survive…through six sequels!
This is why I notice beautiful women. It’s not that I’m masochistic (I am, but that’s not the reason). It’s that the ladies were built to be noticed. I thank the pretty women, for siphoning all the attention, and danger, and allowing me to live my best mid-life, invisible but alive.
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