Sincerity?

I’ve never considered myself beautiful.  I’m close, maybe, but just a shade too round-faced, with my skin not enough like porcelain and my eyes a smidgeon too squinty.  This is not self-pity talking, I promise—I’m quite pretty enough for my own esteem, and beauty will only fade as time goes by.  Still, it’s been a long time since anyone aside from my mother called me beautiful.  Or it had been, before I walked into the laundromat this week and attracted someone’s attention.

He straightened up as I came in, an older gentleman in a white t-shirt and jeans, and his eyes widened.  “Wow,” he said.  “You are so sweet and beautiful.”

Now, I was probably overdressed for this errand.  I’d put on my new white shirt with the black lace down the arms, my bright blue pants, and my high boots.  My face was made up and my hair was fixed, because sometimes I don’t like to feel like a slob.  I was looking pretty good, and I knew it.  But it was still nice to hear it.  At first.

I thanked him, and the compliment did warm me.  People don’t usually say such things with such fervent honesty.  Most of them are honest only when it will not put them into any vulnerable place, or when it will benefit them.

“Really,” he told me as I moved past him to put my clothes in the dryer.  “You must be married.  Beautiful girls like you are always married.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Really?  Then you must have a group of boyfriends.”

“No,” I said, laughing with a little more trepidation.  I focused on my clothes as they flopped into the dryer.  “Haven’t found anyone worth it yet.”

“Really?  That’s a shame,” he said.  He was still looking at me.

Suddenly the admiration wasn’t so welcome.  I found myself wondering if there was anyone else in the building, though I didn’t want to look and find out. 

He offered to take me to dinner, said he would love to do it.  “I own my own house,” he told me, smiling.  I laughed as if he were joking.  I couldn’t meet his eyes, and I moved away as soon as I could.  And still his eyes followed me.  He didn’t look away even as he was leaving, not until the last minute.

Now, I don’t want to be unfair.  The poor man may very well have been joking.  He was significantly older than me, and he didn’t look at all as if he could harm me, much less have wanted to.  His compliment may very well have been sincere.  But the way he said it made me very uncomfortable, even frightened.

I think it’s a shame that we have as much trouble reading one another as we do.  Did he know how unwelcome I found his advances, however gentle?  Was he even aware of my discomfort?  Too often, I think, men don’t even realize how disturbing their admiration can be.  This man’s compliment, after all, was immediately followed by an expectation of something in return, and I think it’s a shame that he felt the need to press himself forward.

In the end, it was a harmless experience, but a sobering one.  I hope that if I ever have sons of my own, I can teach them to be sincere and selfless in their praise.  It is possible—or at least I very much hope so—to tell a girl she is beautiful without phrasing it as a favor she should return.  Maybe if more men did this, we would have more women believing themselves to be beautiful.