I still want to be beautiful
My husband and I were in New Orleans last weekend standing outside of a bar listening to a band he enjoys. A male employee of the establishment, who was probably about 25 years younger than me, approached me and said, “Come on in!” I smiled and shook my head no.
He then said something that struck an uncomfortable cord within me.
He said, “You know, beautiful women come into this place…and you are a beautiful woman.”
My rational mind immediately sensed that this was a line he used every night, with every female that walked by. And, I thought it was a good one. Probably very effective. It made me smile.
My insecure mind wanted to believe he was sincere with his flattery. I immediately wanted this man who was younger than my children to think I was a beautiful woman. I wanted his line to be real.
My reaction made me laugh and brought tears to my eyes at the same time. Why was it important that this young stranger think I am beautiful? Does outer beauty matter that much? Does it define who I am? The questions just kept coming, some finding answers, some not.
I then did the only thing that made sense. I put my arm through my husband’s as we continued to walk down Bourbon Street. I had a smile on my face. I knew that the person whose opinion really matters, the person who finds me beautiful even at my worst, was walking right beside me.