Why Looks Matter, Though I Wish They Didn't

In a recent post I referenced a woman who had shamed a man who didn't find her attractive because she was fat. Very contentious stuff. And I've been thinking about it a lot since.

Attraction is important. We are not just brains - we are brains walking around in bodies with faces attached. Our bodies and faces are as much a part of who were are as our minds. And our brains have a tremendous influence on our bodies and faces. Think about it. What do you eat? How much do you exercise? How much makeup do you wear? What clothes do you choose? How do you do your hair? Do you have tattoos/piercings/weird feather type things sticking out from odd places? 

All of these decisions come from your brain, and will change your appearance accordingly.

But it works the other way, too. We are all born with a particular body - a body that can be altered to an extent, but not entirely. How tall or short we are, how conventionally attractive our features, our genetic predisposition to being thin or fat, any disabilities or illnesses, will all dramatically affect our personalities.

My last boyfriend.

We are a combination of mind and body. And when we meet other people, we are attracted to their particular combination of mind and body, or we are not. 

I don't really understand the science of attraction. I know that I can find classically good looking men remarkably uninteresting, and can be devastatingly attracted to men who would be more suited to the cover of Horse and Hound magazine than Men's Health. But I also know that I can have a visceral repulsion towards a man who may be perfectly pleasant in personality, but whose appearance triggers something negative in me. It may have nothing whatsover to do with traditional notions of beauty, but rather his appearance doesn't resonate with me for reasons I can't articulate.

Of course, attraction is fluid. We can find someone unattractive on first meeting, get to know them, and decide they're not so bad after all. I remember thinking a friend's husband was the least attractive man in the universe until I became friends with him, and realised he was nice looking after all. As I said, brains and body are inextricably connected.

But what to do when you're dating? And is judging people on their looks something we should feel bad about? Lana and I discussed these issues the other day. Would love to hear your thoughts.

Last Night. It ALL Happened.

It's been a tough year. I'm doing well, but it's not easy being a single parent. I'm tired a lot of the time. I'm lonely some of the time. And I have needs. And not just for a cleaner or maid or personal chef (though I seriously could use one of those).

I have needs. Other kinds of needs.

Well, last night marked a turning point for me.

Some of those needs were met for the first time.

It started with a phone call. My friend Mike telephoned the United States, and asked if I was free to take someone out for drinks.

"Why would I take them out?" I asked, "when I can drink at home perfectly well?"

"Bring him home then," he said. "I'm sure he won't mind. He just wants a bit of company while he's in town."

"Who is he?" I asked, and wondered whether I needed to change out of my Uggs.

"He's an actor. He's Australian, but he's lived in LA for a while now. You actually met him briefly when you were here last. I'm not sure if you remember, but you liked him a lot."

I thought for a moment. I was pretty shattered. I'd had a long, hard day, blogging and doing laundry and trying to get Penny the cat to take her worm pill. But then I figured: I've been a bit of a hermit lately, so I should probably make an effort.

I called Gab the Wonder Babysitter, changed from my Uggs into boots, and whacked on some lippy. For a minute I considered changing from my tracksuit pants into jeans, but I didn't know the guy, and it seemed like a lot of effort.

"What's his name?" I asked Mike.

"Soren," he said, but the line was a bit crackly.

Not very Aussie, I thought. He must be Swedish.

I drove in to the city to where Soren was staying in a hotel, and parked my car in the parking lot. The rates were exorbitant, and I worried a little. I really can't afford $80 for parking right now. Most websites only pay about $50 per blog post. But I couldn't cancel at the last moment. And besides, I didn't have Soren's number.

I walked into the lobby and checked my face briefly in the mirror. I looked okay. My hair was clean, there was no food on my top, and I didn't have lipstick on my teeth. I had the winning trifecta.

I was nervous, because I hadn't been out in so long, and also because I realised I hadn't washed my trakky pants in about a month. But I proceeded to the bar, because a promise is a promise.

The bar was empty, but for a blonde guy drinking beer. He was gently tapping his credit card on the counter. I noticed that it was from ANZ.

"Soren?" I asked. He had nice thick hair. Most Swedish men do.

He turned around. "Simon," he said, and leaned in to give me a kiss. "Don't you remember?"

It took me a second to place him, and then suddenly it hit me. "Simon! Of course! Simon Baker! How are you?"

He took me in his arms. "Let's skip the small talk, shall we?" he murmured into my ear. "I've been waiting for this for a long, long time. Shall we go straight up to my room?"

I started to agree and then remembered that I hadn't shaved my legs in six months.

"I... I..."

Simon placed a finger on my lips.

"No excuses. Just love."

He picked me up, carried me to the lift, and then up to the Penthouse where he gently undressed me. The last thing I remember before the waves of bliss rolled over me was the look of delight as he pulled down my trakky pants.

"Hairy legs! Oh yes! My favourite!"

It was, indeed, a night to remember.

Disclaimer: This post is entirely fictional. But fun, huh?

The Game

Last night I went out to dinner with two of my male friends. We ate steak and chips (apparently this is what men do) and we played my favourite game (which was only fair, because the men got their steak and chips).

My favourite game does not involve dice or a board, because board games are excruciatingly boring (and besides, I always lose). In my favourite game, absolutely everyone wins, because that is the point of the game, and what makes it so thrilling.

It is The Lottery Game.

You’ve all played The Lottery Game. I’ve played it dozens of times. And yet each time, the game is a little more exciting, and each time, my imagination runs a little more wild.

Last night’s version of The Lottery Game began as it always does. With a question.

 “Do you ever just wonder what life would be like if you won ten million dollars?”

“YES!” I yelled, practically jumping off my chair, and choking on a chip in my zeal.

“Um… okay,” said my friend Rich*, recoiling slightly in his chair. I realised that the question had been posed rhetorically, and I tried to regain my composure.

Naked Woman Depicted Not Actual Blogger

“I have too,” said my friend Buck** happily, and shovelled in another bite of cow.

“What would you do?” I asked.

“I’d play guitar all day.”

Hmmm. I figured I’d just hire someone to play guitar for me with all my money, but perhaps I was missing the point.

“And what about you?” I asked Rich, who was gazing wistfully into the distance.

“I’d get a butler!” he pronounced, and it sounded eminently sensible.

“Which would give me time to spend up to three hours a day in the gym,” he continued, and I decided that my friend was seriously unhinged.

“And I would travel!” he added, which was redeemed him a little. “I would travel through Europe, and backpack through India, and…”

No no no no.

“Why would you backpack through India?” I demanded. “You’d be a multi-millionaire! You could stay at the best hotels! You could hire people to carry your luggage!”

“But I like backpacking,” he said shamefully, and the table fell silent.

“What about you?” Buck asked me finally, and I was very glad he did.

“Well firstly,” I announced, “I would get staff for absolutely EVERYTHING.” My eyes began to glaze over as I warmed to my topic. “I would get a maid, and a chef, and a chauffeur, and a nanny. I don’t want to do ANYTHING that looks like work, EVER again.”

My fantasy began to overwhelm me, and adrenalin surged through my body. “I want to play with my kids, but not have to lift a finger! I want to sleep until noon and then read in the bath! And I want to get a massage every day of my life. A two hour massage. No. A three hour massage! And then another bath!”

I stopped. I realised that I was bouncing in my chair, and clapping my hands with glee. And Buck and Rich were staring at me as if I was totally deranged.

Sometimes, it seems, even The Lottery Game can produce losers.

*not his real name, but this is what he would be if the game was real

**also not his real name, but I assume you knew that

My Morning Of Porn

I have a confession to make. I've been watching porn all morning.

I tried to look away. Truly. But I couldn't. I became positively addicted. I watched vid after vid after vid, so intensely excited that I forgot to eat lunch, and lost hours sitting at the computer.

The players in the porn movies weren't particularly attractive, but that didn't bother me at all. They still knew how to move, they sounded great, and besides, it was the leather and metal hardware that drew me in. I could practically smell it, feel it, taste it (okay, not taste it, I wouldn't really taste leather or metal, but it was a very vivid sensory experience).

Now, normally I'm not into porn. Watching two (or three or seventeen) people have sex in a poorly lit room after a preposterous set-up just doesn't do it for me. But this porn wasn't your standard, male-on-female-on-female-on-cable-guy sex movie. It was one-on-one, and it was incredible. And it left me frenzied with desire and desperate for more.

Specifically, the vids were woman-on-bag, and featured on a fashion website I stumbled upon. Now I've been on many fashion websites, and I've looked at many bags. But I've never before seen movies of women holding the bags, playing with them, opening their flaps and unzipping their pockets. I'm shivering just thinking about it. Click here to see!

I loved the bag porn for the same reason that anyone loves porn. I could see myself in it. When men watch porn they relate to the male star, fantasizing about having sex with the three blonde flight attendants as voraciously as he. When I watched my bag porn, I related to the women. That could be me, I thought. I could be slinging that hobo over my arm. I could be sauntering down the road with the satchel in my hand. I could be caressing that sleek, smooth leather and sliding my cell phone in and out of the handy, fully lined inner pocket ("For organisation!" the girl beamed).

It was an amazingly satisfying morning. And for those of you wondering: yes, there was a climax. I got out my credit card and bought a beautiful Calvin Klein bag, which shall be delivered to me in just a few short days.

And unlike the other type of standard-issue orgasms, my bag will keep me twitching with delight for months.

So tell me: can your porn do that?

I Want What She's Having

I have a problem. I want to eat candy.

Now, before you jump down my throat, I KNOW it's not called candy. It's called lollies, or rather they're called lollies, as 'lolly' is not a collective noun (although it should be, don't you think? I mean, lollies should always, always be plural). But I don't want lollies. They might walk like candy, they might talk like candy, they might even taste like candy (far more likely, really, as lollies can't actually walk or talk) but they're NOT CANDY. And I want to be eating candy.

Why do I want candy? Well, I've been watching Real Housewives of NYC (and yes, I know that is shameful and sad, but what can I say? I am shameful and sad) and Kelly, the crazy ex-model, keeps keeps eating candy. Gummi bears and jelly beans, to be precise. And though Kelly is quite profoundly nuts, she is also sensationally beautiful, and watching her shovel the candy into her mouth makes me crave it like a desert craves the rain. Or rather, like I usually crave chocolate, which is really far more apt a metaphor.

Whereas before the show I hadn't had a jelly snake for years, since watching it last week I've consumed more than three packets on my own. It may not help me to gain a figure like Kelly's, but it sure gives me a bit of her psychotic buzz.

This isn't the first time I've longed for something I've seen on TV. Every time I watch Mad Men I crave a cigarette, although I haven't smoked in over 20 years, and even then it made me feel dizzy and ill. The characters are all so glamorous, and the curls of smoke so seductively smooth, I just long to be blowing smoke rings out of my own voluptuous, red painted lips. I don't, of course (have a ciggy or voluptuous red painted lips) but I do find myself sucking rather pathetically on pens and cotton buds, which is about as glamorous as a slice of cheese, and not nearly as tasty.

Now, this isn't the same as being susceptible to advertising. I don't want burgers when I see a Maccas ad. I don't crave Pizza Hut pizza, or McCains vegetables, or even Carefree maxi pads. But when a character on TV does something appealing, I want to do it too. Like cut my hair. Or wear purple nail polish. Or drink litres and litres of apple juice on ice in my best clinky glasses (which I am pretending is scotch on the rocks as I totally hate scotch). Or eat with proper cutlery instead of my fingers (which I do anyway, of course... I'm just saying...)

So do you copy what you see on TV? Or am I the only one?

Either way, let's hope they don't show Kelly eating eggplant next week on Real Housewives. I'm allergic, and the results could be pretty ugly.

Can't Wait

Back in the 60’s, researchers experimented on four year old children. They offered them one marshmallow immediately, or two marshmallows if they could hold out for several minutes. Those who held out could delay gratification. Those who couldn’t were like me.

Now, I didn’t do the test, but I can tell you exactly what would have happened if I had. I would have waited till the experimenter’s back was turned and scoffed down that whole packet of marshmallows. (Okay, that’s not exactly true. I don’t like marshmallows. But if it had been spoonfuls of Nutella I would have eaten the whole jar.)

Today, as an adult, I’m exactly the same. I am hopeless at delaying gratification. When I decide to purchase an item of clothing, for example, I need to have it right then and there. Bear in mind, this isn’t about being a shopaholic princesss. I actually don’t buy myself a lot of clothes. But when I do decide I need something new – say my favourite jeans are falling apart and I need another new pair – I have to buy them NOW. I can’t delay. If I have jobs to do, or kids to look after, or meals to cook, or a house to clean, they must wait until my mission has been completed. I cannot rest, I cannot focus, until I’ve gone out and bought my jeans.

Obviously, because of this problem, I can’t do lay by. Even if I don’t intend to wear the purchase straight away, even if lay by is the more sensible financial option, I need to have them in my possession. And if I’m not financially flush I’d rather put them on credit card than pay them off over a period of weeks.

Of course, I have experienced lay-by. Once. It was autumn, I needed a jacket, I’d found the perfect one, and my sister forced me to put it on lay-by as an exercise in delayed gratification. “You must learn to wait,” she told me.”It’ll be good for you.” So I agreed.
I paid the deposit and went home thinking about the jacket. And thought. And thought. And, after a night of agitation, I ran back to the store the following morning, paid the balance, and took my jacket home. I couldn’t wear it for weeks for fear my sister would discover what I’d done, but I felt comforted just knowing it was there in my closet.

My inability to delay gratification extends to all areas of my life. I eat dinner as the main course is still cooking, and when I say 'dinner', I actually mean 'dessert'. I read the last chapter of books when I’m halfway through (which kind of defeats the purpose of reading the middle). I Google the endings of movies I'm about to see. And I bite my nails, because I can't wait for them to grow. I'm sure I'm missing out on all the marvellous bounty of savouring the anticipation, but unfortunately, that's just not the way I'm built. Shameful, I know.

So am I alone? Can you delay gratification? Or are we just a generation of Need-It-Nows???

Love: The Sequel

Today, my friends, is a wonderful day. For today, I have finally been united with the great love of my life.

The past few hours have been rather poetic. My son is home with a flu, which is not in itself poetic, but has sparked off this marvellous turn of events.

Being low on food (which again, is not particularly poetic, but bear with me), I was forced to head to the supermarket, with my moderately ill son in tow. Now, many of you may remember the jacket I became infatuated with recently - the one I would have bought in an instant, were in not waaaaaaaaaaay out of my price range. Well, my darling son did too. And, on our way to the supermarket, he insisted that we stop and visit it.

"What's the point?" I asked him. "I can't afford it."

"Mum, it could have gone on sale," he told me. "You never know unless you try!"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had visited the jacket nearly every day for the past two weeks, and that I had been gently informed by the apologetic sales assitant that the jacket was unlikely to ever go on sale.

"Okay," I said reluctantly. We headed up the escalator.

"Kerri!" I heard a cheery voice call behind me. I looked around. It was my Twitter friend Lauren, adorable curly-haired son in tow.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "Off to visit your expensive jacket?"

Lauren was a prophet! Either that or she had been reading my Twitter updates.

"Er, yes, actually," I said. "Want to come with?"

The four of us trooped up to the shop, which I can now reveal is the absolutely magnificent pink boutique in Westfield Bondi Junction (I didn't share this information earlier as I was frightened one of you would steal the jacket. Then again, one of you might actually have bought me the jacket, but sadly, I didn't think of that until now.

The jacket was still there. I tried it on for the 750th time.

"It's gorgeous," I sighed.

"It's gorgeous," the sales assistant sighed.

"It's gorgeous," Lauren sighed. I looked at her and noticed how beautifully the jacket would go with her outfit.

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" I asked her.

I checked the price tag again, just to make sure the jacket was still waaaaaaaaaaaaay out of my price range. As my income hadn't increased over the past week, it was.

Suddenly, the manager appeared.

"It's you again!" she said.

"It is," I sighed. (I know. I sighed a lot. What can I say? Love makes you sigh.)

She looked at me compassionately.

"You really want this jacket, don't you?"

"Like I want oxygen," I sighed. "Is it going on sale?"

She smiled at me. "Let me see what I can do."

My heart leaped. My son gripped my hand. We waited for the news.

"I can take 15% off," she told me. "That makes it still extremely expensive, but not as prohibitively expensive as it was. What do you say?" (Okay, so I'm paraphrasing a bit, but that was the general idea.)

"I'll say YES!" I said, and bought my beloved jacket.

So that's the end of the story. And it may only have ended forty minutes ago, but I can assure you:

The jacket and I lived happily ever after.

Better To Never Have Loved

I was in Westfield the other day and I saw a jacket. I wasn’t looking for jackets. In fact, I wasn’t looking for clothes at all. I was looking for birthday presents for my children’s friends, and fruit (the fruit was easier to find). But I walked past my favourite store (and when I say ‘favourite’ I mean ‘the store I wish I could shop at but can’t because it is prohibitively expensive) and made my first mistake.

I walked inside.

Normally, I stand outside this particular shop, look longingly at the clothes – every single one of which is a piece worthy of framing – sigh with deep yearning, and move on. But that day, god help me. I went in.
About 25 things caught my eye. I moved amongst the heavenly garments, stroking here, patting there, sniffing here (okay, so maybe not sniffing, but let me tell you, these clothes are so gorgeous they probably even smell good).

And then I saw it. The jacket to end all jackets.

It was a short grey leather jacket, in the most heavenly, buttery soft leather imaginable. The cut was divine – structured, but feminine, detailed, but subtle. It was perfection.

‘Would you like to try it on?’ asked the sales assistant.

‘No,’ I thought.

‘Okay,’ I heard myself saying, as if from somewhere above myself. The sales assistant helped me into it. And it was amazing. It didn’t just fit, it made me look better than I am: taller, slimmer, smaller of waist. And the leather was so exquisite I felt like I was enveloped in a soft cocoon (okay, so I’m exaggerating just a tad, but it was sooooo beautiful).

And then I looked at the price tag. And nearly choked.

Think of the most you’ve ever spent on an item of clothing. Ever. Then triple it. Then add a little bit more. And that’s how much this jacket was.

Normally in a situation like this, I would just exhale with despair and walk out the shop. But this time, something stopped me. I looked in the mirror. I looked sooooo good. I knew that this jacket would complete my wardrobe. I knew this jacket would complete me. I knew that I’d been working really hard and had some money put away and I could technically afford it (if I didn’t buy anything again for the rest of my life). I had to have it, no matter what the cost.

So I took the jacket off, walked to the counter… and walked out of the store.

I just couldn’t do it. No matter how much I loved it, I couldn’t justify spending that amount of money on a piece of clothing, no matter how absolutely, heartbreakingly perfect it was. I had to let it go, this perfect jacket, this soulmate in the sartorial world.

Still, my heart is broken. Okay, so my heart isn’t really broken. That would be just a little too materialistic.

But is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at al?

I don’t think so.