I said the last post would be the final installment of this series, but SURPRISE! I can’t stop talking about people presumably trying to flirt with me!
Let’s set the scene.
EXT. GAS STATION – MORNING
On my way to work, I stop at the gas station near my apartment to fill up my car.
A man, upon finishing an important business call on the gas station payphone, approaches and says,
“You’re far too pretty to pump your own gas.
Let me finish for you.”
I gasp, thinking, “Woah, the sexual tension here is palpable. It’s undeniable. What’s a girl to do when faced with all this sweet, sweet tension?”
Then, I look away from the car window where I’d been staring longingly at my own reflection and notice the man standing there. I’d been too distracted by my own goddamn beautiful face to see him, let alone pump gas all by my wittle sewlf!
“You’re right, sir!” I yell. Then, I throw the pump to him after slow-motion dousing my hair in gasoline and run off to find answers: What else have I been doing that I’m far too pretty for?
Visions of tax forms and forever stamps and non-discounted lattes flood my gorgeous lady brain as I run to seek answers, seductively dodging oncoming traffic in front of the gas station.
“I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE AT THE VERY BEGINNING OF A STORY. I NEED TO MAKE IT AT LEAST UNTIL MY SHIRT BECOMES PARTIALLY SEE-THROUGH. HAVE YOU NEVER SEEN A HOLLYWOOD THRILLER?” I scream at a Dodge Durango after posing on its hood briefly to eat a Carl’s Junior charbroiled burger.
I spit out the bite of burger, as everyone knows the first rule of Being Too Pretty is No Carbs, but then I pick it back up and eat only the meat patty since a paleo diet is very in for Pretty People.
The world becomes a blur of my own sweet-ass face in various everyday situations. Stuck in traffic. Sending emails. Holding the elevator door open for non-Pretties. So many missed opportunities to not partake in boring life things. So much I have to learn or, rather, un-learn. Who will guide me on this journey of Being Too Pretty? Will it be a handsome yet approachable TV actor? Maybe a single lock of perfectly ombré-d hair?
A figure approaches. It is indistinguishable but familiar. I feel like I know this figure. I’ve definitely seen this figure before.
Oh, it’s a mirror. I’m looking at a mirror. I’m looking at a mirror?
BUT OF COURSE. Other Pretty People can’t be bothered with spirit journeys! Even the spirit journeys of fellow Pretty People.
“You’re me?” I ask myself. “Or I guess I’m you? We’re us? Is there a right way to say that?”
“Pretty People don’t answer rhetorical questions.” Woah, Pretty Me is cool.
“Are you here to guide me on my Pretty Person journey?”
“Pretty People don’t answer redundant questions either…” Pretty Me is also a little bitchy, which I’m guessing she thinks she can get away with on account of being pretty.
“…I’m sorry,” she continues, “What would you like to know? I’m here to help. Also, I love that top.” Ugh, I wish she would go back to being rude because then I can at least have an excuse to hate her. Nice Pretty People are the worst.
“I guess I just want to know what this means for me? Where do I go from here?” I ask. Pretty Me takes my hand. Or maybe I just bumped my fist on the mirror.
“Wherever you’d like,” she says. Wherever I’d like? The possibilities are endless!
“Oh, wow. I guess maybe like fame and fortune or my own series on E!?”
“Calm down. You’re the kind of pretty that occasionally gets approached at gas stations and can maybe get away with a slightly drastic haircut. Not E! series pretty.” Ah, so there are levels of Pretty. I still need to live within the confines of my reality, just with the knowledge that my appearance may occasionally be credited for things I experience. Sounds fun!
“I’ve always wondered if I’m pretty, and the online quizzes were so inconclusive. I guess the best part is just finally knowing,” I say contemplating a pixie cut.
“Shh, don’t say that.” Pretty Me looks extra pretty when she’s mad.
“Say what? That I take online quizzes? That I ever questioned my own beauty? That now I know I’m beautiful?”
“NO, STOP. You never acknowledge your own prettiness out loud to anyone. The lack of awareness is what adds to your allure. DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM THAT ONE DIRECTION SONG?”
“I guess I just didn’t take it literally. I thought it was a nonsense song lyric, like rhyming ‘freaking’ with ‘weekend’ or the word ‘sexyback.'”
“PRETTY PEOPLE DON’T ANSWER RHETORICAL QUESTIO–” Then, Pretty Me vanished into thin air/a bunch of tiny pieces because I rage punched the mirror, and it broke.
I walked home, and nobody honked at me.
But then I walked back to the gas station to get my car because continuity.
A few weeks ago, I went back to the gas station. Not to reminisce. My car just needed gas. Come on.
I was almost finished filling up when a man pulled up next to my car and shouted from his half-rolled down window, “You’re too cute to pump your own gas. Someone should be doing that for you.”
[insert arbitrary gif of Liz Lemon rolling her eyes]
“Excuse you, sir,” I said. Then, I placed the gas pump back on the holder, careful not to spill any on myself because gas, I’ve learned, is a very hard smell to get off your person.
“I’ll have you know I was recently on a spirit journey where I learned a lot about myself and also punched a mirror. I’m not sure what you think you’re achieving by shouting things from a car window. Also, your message is very unclear. You think I’m ‘too cute to pump my own gas?’ What does that even mean? And why didn’t you say I was ‘too pretty’ or ‘too nice’ or perhaps ‘too violently beautiful’ to pump my own gas? Everyone knows there is a clear Compliment Hierarchy, and it goes: Beautiful, then Sexy, then Pretty, then Cool (but not too intimidating to scare off their boner), Dece, and finally, at the very bottom, Cute. The last man told me I was ‘too pretty’ to pump my gas, and suddenly I’ve fallen a full three tiers to just ‘cute.’ What did I do wrong? Was my hairstyle too approachable? Did I smile and it all seemed too easy? Could you tell I at one point knew I was beautiful, therefore not making me beautiful anymore? IS WHAT MAKES ME BEAUTIFUL THAT I DON’T KNOW I’M BEAUTIFUL? CURSE YOU, HARRY STYLES!”
So, that’s how you get deflect catcalling, and also why I’m banned from all Shell stations forever.
P.S. Tell me in the comments how you respond to catcalls or if you’ve ever rage punched a mirror or where I fall on the Compliment Hierarchy!