One of the things I'd like to do with this blog from time to time is share some of the poetry and creative nonfiction pieces I have written.  (I took a class on creative nonfiction a couple of years ago and discovered that this is a category that I really enjoy.  It might sound like an oxymoron, but it really just refers to things like memoirs, etc.).  Sharing this kind of writing is scary, for a host of reasons, but I am going try to overcome my fears.  In this piece I might sound like I'm fishing for compliments.  I hope not. 

                 I recently read that 13% of American women consider themselves pretty.  At moments I am one of them.  For years I have described myself as mildly attractive.  That equates to sort of pretty, I'd say, although attractiveness and beauty certainly aren't the same thing. I think I clean up pretty well.  Give me a good night's sleep, 90 minutes to get ready (a good hour of that is just to let my hair begin to dry), lipstick, heels, and the right dress, and I feel pretty.  

            Some men seem to think I'm pretty.  Sometimes that's cool, and sometimes . . . it’s not. 

            Little girls tend to think I am beautiful, or, rather, they think the girl on the CD cover is beautiful. 

            Unattractive men often think I am pretty.  Aunt Susie says I am a geek magnet.  (Maybe it's not pretty so much as available?) 

            A few years ago I was telling my all-female writing group about a guy I had a crush on.  “He's too good looking for me,” I assured the group.

            My friend Rhonda, who knew my crush, said, “No he's not,” in that dismissive way that women reflexively use to encourage one another.

            And then Rachel added, “I don't even know him, but there is no way he is too good looking for you.  No one could be too good looking for you.”  I could see the sincerity in her eyes—feel the intensity of her words.  Now there's a compliment I can sink my teeth into. 

            For a moment, I was firmly planted among the 13%.