Leo Dicaprio

My tiny frame settled on the floor to indulge in what followed Sesame Street. Back then I understood lovemaking to be a couple rolling back and forth on their bed and soap operas to be meticulously drawn cartoons, knowing not that “actors” existed. I hated these shows bate the view of the women. What intrigued me the most was their beautiful legs- how every grown-up girl had such bewitching curves and lines to walk upon. Therefore, I noticed a Marilyn Monroe-like birthmark on my upper left thigh and, as early as seven, was sure that boys would love this and find me pretty for it. I would intentionally let my skirts or shorts rise up over it in hopes that someone would notice and I even called it “sexy”. Until my boyfriend’s recent public mention of it, I wasn’t sure that anyone ever had noticed.  

 

 If it was legs I spent hours praying for in my youth, it would appear God granted my wish by the miles. Unfortunately, with my blossomed calves also came the doubt that they were what would make me “pretty”, after all.

Much, much later I found out those loving couples did more than roll back and forth in bed and, sadly, didn’t even have to be loving to do so. Further, I recognized that my Marilyn-esqe mark wouldn’t be sexy on its own, but sexy because it led the eye upwards to the real treasure.  

 So, life resumed with a pencil body, mosquito bite boobs (thanks Alison), braces, headgear, frizzy hair, an eventual potbelly, unpopularity, and the glories of rejection. My friends’ moms called me “so pretty” and creepy fathers in restaurants seemed to agree. Very rarely the occasional boy from a different high school eyed me, but that was it. I certainly didn’t feel “so pretty.” Ever.

Fast forward to this week, and what seems to be a hundred years, and I share an iced coffee with my boyfriend at an attractive cafe in the lower eastside of New York City. We spent a few happy days together during his tour stop through NY with the band he documents for a record company, and there we sat.

I childishly hand Drew a shovel and ask him to dig my self-confidence a grave with a simple question: Would you date her if we weren’t together?

 Too enthusiastically, “You’re asking me if I’d date a supermodel?”

“Ha! She’s not ’super’! She’s not Jessica Stam or something. She’s just a model.”

He laughs and I do too, “She’s not ’super,” I insist. My mind flushed with care as I considered how she’s a hell of a lot closer to model, super or not, than I am.

That evening at the show I took great joy in any second glances I received in my short, short, short shorts and- to my dismay, hers were just as short, in black. I whined and complained a great deal to my victim of a friend, Tracy and even more so in my own mind. “Maybe I wouldn’t be this upset he found her pretty if she were similar looking to me but she’s like ten pounds lighter with dark chestnut hair and exotic features. I mean, c’mon!” Sweet Tracy sympathetically offered to fight her…

I watched the guys perform and listened to the girls scream like Elvis was in the building whenever they received a glance or a touch from the singer and considered how “pretty” a girl must feel when a celebrity gives her attention. I sorrowfully bobbed to the music with the daunting realization of the life I have chosen. I live in the town of Botox and travel to the land of famous models for vacation, all the while attempting to maintain some sort of self-assurance and “prettiness.”

After the show, the VIP was cleared out entirely with the exception of my friend and me. I approached the dressing room bouncer and asked to go in. “Who do you know?” he inquired.

“The band’s filmer. He’s my boyfriend.”

The bouncer shook his head and tightened his lips, “I’m sorry, he’d have to bring you in.”

My blood approached a boil, “But he didn’t bring me in. He left me out here.” Drew laughs within. “And I can hear him laughing.”

The bouncer smiled sympathetically at my pathetic misery and opened the door. I thanked him through gritted teeth when my eyes landed first on my love receiving a flirty butt-bump from another gorgeous model, both smiling ear to ear. I knew her affections rested solely on a band member, but I still felt an envy stronger than I ever have before, accompanied by a new hopelessness courtesy of her enticing beauty. My mouth became dry and I forced back any sign of tears as I pulled the dumbest line from the worst of soap operas, “Remember me? Your girlfriend?”…

by Miles Aldridge

The night continued on, resuming at a local bar, and I felt like an insecure disease hoping Drew would be my infected host. Ironically enough, I am quite assured that I was less pretty than ever before. I was having trouble socializing, I wasn’t loving to Drew or his friends, and I was stolen away by my own thoughts. 

I prayed silently: What could make me pretty forever? I got those legs I begged for, my hair curls in lieu of frizzing, and my little boobs seem en vogue nowadays. What do I want now- to be someone entirely different?

I remembered then that the evening before we danced at a nightclub and were asked to move so Leonardo DiCaprio and his entourage could have our seats. We walked the entire 7 feet to the other side and sat down across from them. It was Leo, and a bunch of pretty girls, in plain view. Drew and I were having the best time with our friends and as I danced Leo smiled at me and tipped his hat flirtatiously. “Of course he did, babe,” Drew sung in my ear, “You’re one of the prettiest girls here!” In that moment, it felt so true.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I plead for Drew’s reassurance every moment, and he always gives it to me in the sincerest of ways. The next moment, I beg for more. Even a tip of Leo’s hat can’t keep me satisfied for an entire 24 hours. More desperately, could a groupie’s sexual exploit of a singer or movie star or local divorcee grocer keep her confident for over a day? Clearly, mine, and arguably many other girls’ insistence on “pretty” really needs to change.

I hitched a ride on the tour bus that was scheduled for an early Philly arrival. I lied down beside Drew in his coffin-sized bunk, holding onto him and listened to his steady breathing and the hum of the bus. He is a wonderful man and my absolute love, but even in him I cannot place my value- it is far too much for one person to bear.

My mom picked me up and drove us back to South Jersey where life seems, oh so beautifully sound and ordinary. But, I will not be as fortunate as my newly wed best friend Tara with a single home and security. I will be in LA, allowing God to teach me that beauty’s not in the Botox.