The Scale of Hotness
Where the scale of hotness is concerned, I broke the
rules and married someone way hotter than me.
Before you throw tomatoes at me with You’re Beautiful Just The Way You Are
written on them, let’s turn down the Bruno Mars song and have a frank
discussion.
The Scale of
Hotness
I grew up with a bowling ball face, a frizzy mess of
curls a mile wide, and what curves I did have had certainly weren’t in my
chest. While I never had the curse of braces, the tune of ‘you’re just big
boned,’ whistled in my ears from total strangers.
Trust me, that’s way worse than braces ‘cuz you can’t
change bone structure.
I’d walk down the halls at school and hear my teachers
say, “She has a great smile, doesn’t she?” While my brothers friends said,
“Well, she’s not the brightest bulb on the tree.”
Fast forward a decade and I landed on my feet, a
full-time RN, living in a downtown and working with kids. My career made me
awesome, but not enough. Here’s the shocker: I was single.
I dated all kinds of guys. I mean all kinds. I got an
Air Force guy who yelled at me for not being willing to pick him up on our
first date. A gentleman that worked for the forest service who was so quiet
that I had to lean over my pasta to hear what he said. Then there was, of
course, Mr. Medical School Man. He used me for a few rides, a couch to crash
on, then broke up with me over a text message.
Classy.
The common thread was this: they were all pretty much
my facial equal. Attractive enough, but nothing so beautiful that I wanted to
attach to it with suction cups and scream, “Never let me go!”
Changing Tunes
Then I met the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
I was twenty four. We’d been emailing for weeks via
eHarmony before he flew out to see me. He was an Army officer just off
deployment, had thick eyelashes I’d kill for, and more sarcastic humor than I
could handle. I’d already had a good feeling about this one, and I was a pro
about dating vibes, so I pulled out all the stops and dressed in my girl power
outfit: black yoga pants, a vest from Eddie Bauer with fuzz on the inside, and
hiking boots.
Yes, hiking boots.
My curly hair is an entity until itself, so after an
hour-and-a-half battle, I’d tamed the tresses into straight, highlighted
strands, then arrived at the airport with my hands steepled in prayer, begging
the gods of first dates that I wouldn’t get sweaty pit stains. Which I so did.
He strode off the plane and right into my heart. The
moment I saw him my mouth dropped open, my hands turned to ice, and all I could
think of when I stared at his strong jaw and crooked smile was, oh no. He is
way too attractive for me.
Although I stood there like a mute, he put his muscled
arms around me in a warm hug. I melted like butter in southern Alabama on a hot
July afternoon. My heart fluttered. Is
this real? Is this a joke? He’s too beautiful. I could feel the suction
cups forming on my fingertips. He wasn’t Calvin Klein model perfect: he was
rugged, manly, five-shades-of-stubble-in-the-morning perfect.
I pulled myself back together, managed a somewhat
coherent mumble, then started toward my car so I didn’t have to see his face.
We took a forty five minute drive up a gorgeous canyon to a famous diner for
brunch. My eyes never strayed from the road. His gleaming, angelic face would
certainly blind me if I looked over. More than that, I didn’t want to face the
reality behind the voice in my head.
He’s way too hot! Scale of
hotness is tipped! Must. Stop.
Breaking the
Rules
We sat across from each other at a shabby table in a
kitschy restaurant filled with people, sunshine, and odd decor. I glanced up to
find the undeniable truth again: He was beautiful. He was everything sturdy and
strong that I ever wanted. The voice screeched on in the back of my mind.
You’re breaking the rules!
Never mind that we hit it off like a pair of gloves
missing their mate. Never mind that his eyes sparkled when he laughed at my
snarky comments because he thought I was funny. Never mind that he held my hand
that night and it felt like coming home. All I could think was: I can’t do it.
I’d never match up. I have big hips and volatile hair. I love food way too
much—and it shows. Doesn’t he see the issue here?
To my dismay, he didn’t seem to get it.
It would have been a lot easier if he would have just
stepped away after the first date with a kind smile and flippant Hey! Let’s do
this again! just like the rest of them. But he didn’t. He wanted to see me in
the morning, so I took action into my own hands. This beautiful man would not
be forced into an unequal relationship that surely he’d regret.
The next day, after washing my hair into its
full-scale-curly-haired-massive-glory, and ensuring it was full and wild,
(because who wouldn’t that scare off?) I picked him up from his friends house.
My plan was already in action.
“Want to go for a run?” I asked.
That’ll show him, I thought with smug superiority.
He’ll see my wobbly legs and butt trying to get up the hill and he’ll realize
what I’ve seen since the beginning.
“Of course!” he said, as I knew he would.
We ran up a mountain trail (where I practically
reached down and grabbed handfuls of dirt to rub on my face as I went) and then
back down. We laughed when he accidentally embarrassed himself by
farting—twice. We swapped stories about nightmare dates. We enjoyed the sun and
crisp mountain air. He didn’t turn away in disgust, the jerk.
No, we just kept having a great time.
Breaking the
Scale
Three days later, my heart broke as I watched him walk
back into the airport on Valentines day. Our weekend of sharing frozen yogurt,
cuddling up to Finding Nemo, and star gazing from the top of a mountain had
altered my universe forever. He was my perfect match in all ways . . . except
one.
I wouldn’t hear from him again, I already knew that.
And really, who would blame him? The scale of hotness never lies. It cannot be
broken. There was a Mrs. Perfect with blonde hair and blue eyes waiting for
this Mr. Perfect. Except she was probably wearing heels, not hiking boots, and
spreading her divine glitter over orphaned puppies. I couldn’t deprive the
world of their stunning children, so I drank in his perfect smile and brown
eyes until he disappeared from view.
Every heartbeat on my drive home caused me pain. Just
as I was sitting down in front of the TV, Lifetime movie at the ready, a barrel
of fun sized snickers and a box of tissues in hand, the doorbell rang.
“For you,” a delivery man said, holding out a long box
that said 1-800-Flowers on the side. I dropped the Snickers, slammed the door
in his face, ripped the box open, and found a dozen red roses nestled inside. A
note accompanied them.
Thanks for the perfect
weekend of running, laughing, and playing. I can’t believe this is real, and I
can’t wait to see you again. I’ll call after my plane lands. Can’t wait to talk
to you again.
My hands trembled. I blinked in disbelief and fell to
the chair behind me. The letter, and the gorgeous crimson flowers with dark
veins running through the petals, were from him, there was no doubt. But how
could that be?
The scale of hotness never lies.
Right?
Shattering Old
Beliefs
After 8 years of more gritty-faced runs, listening him
say I love your beautiful face, wife
and staring at his stubbled jaw, I’ve realized that the scale of hotness I
judged myself by was never really a thing
after all.
I created those rules and bounds in my own mind and
then put them onto my perfect mate. (Don’t get me wrong—we’re not perfect at
all. We’re imperfectly perfect, which is way better.) Out of a place of
insecurity, I led myself to believe that no one could possibly love a girl
that’s sometimes not functional, is abhorrent with fashion, forgets her phone
and keys in the most random places, loves adventure, carries her own gun, hikes
every day, and loves to laugh, simply because she’d believed in a cultural
scale that said she didn’t measure up.
But the truth is the opposite: the scale of hotness
existed in my own mind, and my worth has nothing to do with the size of my
hips, the spread of my hair, or the fact that I sweat on hot days just like
everyone else.
Marrying Mr. Right didn’t even teach me that—I spent
the first 5 years of my marriage believing myself to be inferior, when in truth
I was just right. It took a lot of digging into belief systems I had in place
that were false—and working with a professional—for me to see the truth.
That I’m just as hot as my husband, and just as
imperfectly perfect.
If you’ve ever believed in the scale of hotness, let
me shatter that one for you. Because here’s something I never understood at the
time:
Looks don’t really matter.
