I Feel Pretty

I love Seattle, for so many reasons, in so many ways. This has always been a good city for me. I first came here as an escape from a Philadelphia butcher shop, and while it took time to for this place to feel comfortable to me, it immediately felt better than where I was coming from. Seattle was my Adult starting grounds: it was my first paid acting job, my first hike in the mountains, my first review in the paper, my first time living clean and sober. I made wonderful friends here, was a working actor with good notice from the press, and generally lived a good life. So why did I leave?

I left because there was too much else I wanted to do, and Seattle became far too comfortable. I was happy but not satisfied, and I knew that if I didn’t leave, I would always wonder, What if…
And now, it’s been 6 years since I called Seattle home. I’ve been able to make it back for a few visits, and the longer I’ve been gone, the more I’ve come to love this place. And one of the things I love the most: in this town, I’m a total hottie.

I don’t consider myself to be beautiful. I’m attractive, certainly, and I clean up pretty darned good. But I am not the kind of beauty that turns heads when I enter a room. Rather, mine is a kind of beauty that sneaks up on a person. Mine is a kind of beauty that grows as one grows to know me. Like, I might know a person for months, and my beauty is never considered; then all of a sudden, in the middle of a conversation, I change and morph in that person’s eyes and my beauty is discovered. And this is partly due to the fact that I have lived in places flooded with beauty. Different kinds of beauty for different kinds of places. For example, New York is a city of international and exotic beauty. Everyday in that city of skyscrapers, I would be struck blind by the beauty of 6-foot women and 6-foot men. There’s an easiness about beauty there; it doesn’t require much makeup or tanning salons or bleached blonde hair. Rather, it is a beauty that comes from confidence and world-travel and intellectualism. It’s a beauty that matches the marvels of Manhattan. In New York, I am short and average-looking, with really cool hair. In Los Angeles, beauty is judged quite differently. Its beauty is a combination of healthy living and plastic surgery. The beauty of the mountains and the ocean seep into one’s skin, but the ideals of The Industry seep into one’s mindset, so that in addition to an organic diet and a hardcore fitness routine, much time and energy is put into painting on the proper appearance. It’s naturalism enhanced by technology, and there are strict standards for what beauty is allowed to be. In LA, I am short and chubby and underdone, with really cool hair. And then there’s Vegas. Vegas is LA taken to extremes. There’s nothing natural about Vegas, and natural beauty is unrecognized as beautiful. Vegas is a city of strippers, and that is what beauty boils down to. It’s about tiny waists and huge boobs, it’s about tons of makeup and huge hair, it’s about teeny bikinis and 4-inch heels. Vegas is porn-star beauty, it’s the Fantasyland of Beauty, it’s about pleasing the senses immediately and leaving before the sun rises, exposing the truth underneath the false lashes and silicone implants. In Vegas, I am unnoticed in everyway, except that I am female and therefore cannot help but be objectified. But beautiful, I am not. Even though I’ve got really cool hair.

And then we come to Seattle. Seattle is a contradiction of beauty. The city itself is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived. It is also the ugliest. When the sun comes out and exposes the mountains and the water and the bluest sky imaginable, this place is like Heaven on Earth. But the sun comes out for only a few months a year. Most of the time, this city is grey. Most of the time, the sky is a flat grey ceiling that hangs so low as to make a girl feel claustrophobic. Most of the time, it is cold and rainy and colorless. And that cannot help but sink into the people here. There’s a greyness about everything here, and even when the sun comes out and fills the world with colors unimaginable, the grey has seeped deep into the skin and remains long into August. And this is a city that respects what is natural, this is a city of granola and yoga and letting your hair grow: bearded boys and hairy-pitted girls are everywhere. This is the city that gave birth to the Grunge scene, and grunge is something this place does well. Makeup on women is not the norm, nor are outfits that show skin. It is a city of naturalism, almost to a fault. It is a city where casual is the dress code. And it is a city where I am beautiful. It is a city where I turn heads. It is a city where men and women flirt with me and dance with me and ask if I need a ride home. I didn’t notice this much when I lived here, perhaps because I was as grey as any other inhabitant. But since I’ve left and come here to visit, it has been clear: In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And it’s funny, because while makeup is never required here, I wear makeup. Not everyday, not if I’m taking a bike ride or running errands or going to a friend’s place for dinner. But when I’m going out to a restaurant or seeing a show or meeting friends in public, there I am with my lipstick and mascara and blushed-up cheeks. In Vegas, I never wore makeup. I never wanted to be noticed. But here, I am happy, and I feel good about myself, and so I put a little effort into my beauty routine, effort which is in no way expected, effort which would turn off many of the dirty-crunchy-hippie types who thrive here. This doesn’t bother me in the least, because I know that in Seattle, I am beautiful. In part, it is because I am happy. In part, it is because I’m coming from the desert and have no grey in my skin tone. In part, it is because I show more skin than the average inhabitant and therefore shake some life into some people. (Seattle is a very liberal town, while also being quite conservative: cleavage is a no-no, though drag queens are celebrities.) Whatever the reasons, I like it. I like feeling pretty. I like feeling noticed. I like feeling as though I’m not a disappointment when I walk into a room. Call me egotistical, and I’ll agree with you. But understand that beauty is rarely a goal for me. I can count on one hand how often I shave my legs each year; I often don’t wear makeup because “I have to wear makeup for my job, so why should I have to wear it when I’m not working?” My wardrobe expands only at Christmas when family members gift me with new clothes. But that’s the thing about Seattle: I am beautiful as is. I don’t need the makeup or the miniskirt to turn heads (I just like the added affect). In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And I love this town.

So, why am I leaving again?