I (Don't) Feel Pretty

I'm thinking about prettiness.

I wonder sometimes about what it feels like to be pretty. I'm considering it in a purely theoretical sense, like wondering what it would be like to live in a colony on Mars. I have no real experience in this area.

Now: STOP IT. Every time I say something like that, people leap at the opportunity to tell me how tragically low my self esteem is. They say, "You're just beautiful!" They're sure that I'm sad, or angry, or depressed. I'M NOT. I have no experience in being European, or redheaded, or speaking Portuguese, either, and none of that affects my self esteem. I've already covered this ground ( in "I'm OK, You're Mistaken"). I am fabulous. I am bright, talented, capable and many other wonderful things. I value all of those things much more than I value "pretty." In the right culture and/or time frame, I would be considered very pretty. I know this. PLEASE, for heaven's sake, let's ALL move past this idea that a woman cannot be whole unless she feels pretty. I am happy with myself.

Ironically, that attitude - that women NEED to be/feel pretty - is what leads me to contemplate it.

Of course, I've wondered what it would be like. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. I've also wondered what it would be like to have nearly unlimited money - I'm talking the "burn my crumpled bills" kind of obscene wealth. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. Yet, I have never factored it in to my day to day living, never figured that my life would be empty and unfulfilled without it. I do not feel that I have "settled" or given up or any other such drivel. It's an unnecessary outcome.

Talking to other women can be alienating. One of my dearest friends confided in me, long about the time we hit our 40s, "Every head doesn't turn when I walk into a room any more." She was in actual pain, I could tell. She was hurt. I should have been sympathetic, should have assured her that she remains beautiful (because she always has been). I should have helped her feel valued. Instead, I was entirely unsympathetic.

"Welcome to the real world! The rest of us have been living here for years."

Another friend once said, "Remember how it was in your 20s, when guys constantly hit on you, no matter where you were or who you were with?" No. I never experienced such a thing. Guys hit on my friends, sure. But aside from the fact that I've been married practically since childhood, most of the times that anybody hit on me, it tended to be the "you have girl parts; therefore, you'll suffice" kind of attention. It had nothing to do with me, personally.

You know how, in a lot of movies, TV or even books, a guy will have a female friend who's funny, loyal, great to be around and clearly adores him, but he never considers her female until he sees her dressed up for some fancy occasion; then, he'll suddenly realize that he loves her, because he realizes that she's pretty? I hate that convention. I hate those scenes. SO shallow. You can tell me all you like about how men are hardwired to respond to visual stimuli, how it's natural selection at work, how you can't fight biology, blah, blah, blah, and I'll still find it shallow.

The only time I watched one of those scenes and really applauded, it was on "Dawson's Creek." Joey (who is female, by the way, in case you never saw the show) has had a crush on her best friend Dawson for years. She's been trying and trying to get his attention. Then, she enters a pageant; she needs scholarship money for college. Dawson, after blowing off her advances, sometimes very rudely, sees her in her evening gown, with her hair and makeup done, and he swoons. He compliments her. He makes a pass at her, finally. Joey's response? "This is just a dress. This is makeup. It washes off." She wants nothing to do with his newfound intentions. She blows him off - not to make a point or teach him a lesson, but because she's not interested if all he's attracted to are the trappings.

Only once in my life did I ever have something even remotely similar happen. I was 17 or 18; the "Dawson's Creek" kids wouldn't be born for years. I had a lot of friends in the theater departments of other high schools, because theater kids tended to know one another and stick together.

I was visiting my sister at her apartment. I went out to the pool by myself; she was doing something, and was supposed to come join me as soon as she finished whatever it was. The pool was empty, which was great. I like to be alone.

Then, a kid that I knew appeared out of one of the apartments facing the pool. He seemed delighted to find me there. I'd known him for about a year and a half. He'd never spent time with me alone, never given me his number or asked for mine, never invited me over, even in a group, never treated me any differently than you'd treat a distant relative that you saw every few months (definitely friendly, but not seeking you out), but suddenly he was acting like he was my best buddy, and he'd missed me so much since the last time we saw each other. "Do you live here?" he wanted to know; then, "Which apartment is your sister's?" ("Um - I forget the number. (That was a lie.) It's over there" - wave of my hand in a westerly direction.) He asked me to a party at his apartment that night - asked repeatedly and rather forcefully, when I responded with a vague, "I dunno. Maybe."

I did not feel pretty. I did not feel desirable. I did not feel noticed or wanted. Maybe I was too hard on the guy, but the only way that I could interpret this behavior, this change in established behavior, was, "I, myself, am a fan of breasts, and I couldn't help but notice that you possess some."

I did not attend his party. I did not take him up on the "call me sometime" invitation. I fled the pool.

If you would have asked people who knew me what my best physical feature was, the answer would be divided along gender lines. Most girls would have said it was my hair, long, thick and wavy. (It started to fall out - or at least, I started to notice - when I was 16. It's been less impressive ever since.) Guys, I think, would have said my breasts. They were larger than most other girls' breasts, and kind of obvious. Plus, teenagers are hormonal. I knew that people noticed, but that's a far cry from feeling pretty. I was the girl with the "great personality."

This is my favorite photo of myself from high school. It's not exactly "me," though, even though those are my clothes, on my body. This is Gwendolyn, a character I played as a high school junior.

I'd been acting for five years at the time, and it was the first time I'd ever been given a role that had a smidgen of sex appeal. I was always cast as the spinster aunt, grandmother, or mother. That's kind of ironic, when you think about it; how do women become mothers if they're lifelong celibates? Still, mothers were not sexy or attractive in any way. Gwendolyn may not have been outright sexy, but she was somebody's date, and that was new for me. Having a director decide that I was capable of portraying that was new and unexpected and wholly delightful. (Thanks, Andy.)

I was grateful for the role, and I worked hard at it. I felt capable of projecting the idea that someone would find me desirable. In one scene, I walked into a poker game, and the poker players were supposed to gape at me. They were all my friends, we were all in character, so it was fine. I got comfortable with the scene. When we started working in costume, though, one of the guys continued to look at me as though I was a steak dinner and it was two hours past his dinnertime, even after the director called "cut" and stopped the scene to iron out problems. That was deeply unnerving. Not because I didn't like him - I did; we were very close. I just didn't know what to do, how to react, how to be someone's steak dinner. Gwendolyn could, but I couldn't. I was glad when I got to put my regular clothes back on and be myself.

When this photo was taken, I liked it, but all I could see were "flaws." My stomach is rounded, and I have round "saddlebags" at the top of my thighs, even in control top pantyhose. My eyelids droop. My chin recedes. It took years to be able to say, "Flaws are OK. A person can have flaws and be pretty." Still, I did not personally feel pretty.

I did not date in high school. I was actually asked out only once, when I was too young to date. Nobody else bothered. I was not gorgeous, I was not promiscuous, and I was therefore off the radar.

Very occasionally, I would recognize flirtation. A bisexual girlfriend once said, "Look, if you're ever curious or bored and you just want to know how the other half lives, call me." I actually found the straightforwardness of that to be very sweet; no code words to decipher, no pity, no game playing, just a sincere offer. If, indeed, I wanted to date women, she would have made a lovely and considerate partner. I just wasn't interested.

Knowing that she meant it was nice, though. It was, and is, important to me to feel attractive and desirable. I just never thought that "pretty" was a prerequisite. Plenty of people are deeply attractive and very desirable without being lovely to look at. It's a whole "different ball of wax," as the saying goes.

I was about to list certain actors to illustrate my point, but that would be rude. "Look at (Name Censored). He's hideous physically, but he's still incredibly attractive." Instead I'll try to explain what I find "attractive." To me, it means, "This person possesses qualities that make me want to spend time around them." "Desirable" is close, but more specifically romantically oriented - "This person would be a great partner."

What's attractive? Talent. Oh, good heavens, talent. If you're good at anything - performing, writing, building, programming, gardening, I don't care what - it's swoonworthy and deeply attractive. There are a few plain to ugly men that I would have no trouble at all casting or watching as Prince Charming, because I would totally buy it. I would be convinced that they were both royal and The Perfect Man for the princess. Talent also tends to increase my estimate of your physical features. I may have once thought you were plain, but then I saw what you're capable of, and now you look lovely indeed.

If I was ever to be a groupie of any kind, or if I was ever to decide to be promiscuous, fame, status and money would not interest me at all. Talent would.

Any quality that you'd list if asked, "What makes a good friend?" is attractive. Sense of humor, fun to be around, honest, supportive, spiritual, trustworthy, brave, hard working - all attractive.

Loyalty tops the list of what makes you desirable. I have no interest in, or time for, people who can't handle monogamy. Don't waste my time. All the above qualities help, too. "Desirable" speaks to the long term.

Occasionally, it would seem that someone found me to be either attractive or desirable, even though I was not pretty. I think that's as it should be.

One of my best friends said to me, when I was roughly 18, "If no one else ever marries you, I will." We were in a group at the time, and I gave him major grief for the awkward wording of that compliment.

"Oh, gee, every girl wants to hear that. I feel warm and fuzzy all over now."

"No! No! I meant it! I just mean, well, you'd make a good wife."

I ribbed him pretty hard, which wasn't very nice of me. Chalk it up to teenage angst. At the time, though, and more and more as I got older, I knew that his actual sentiment looked something like, "I've noticed that you're good wife material. I'd be happy living with you." I'll take that compliment. I'd much rather have that than be pretty.

There was one time when I was growing up that I felt not only attractive and desirable, but cherished. I was comfortable being affectionate with my friends, but there are levels of physical affection. Some are fine no matter your age, gender, marital status or familial ties. Some are a little more exclusive. Some are romantically motivated - those can get iffy. Some just say, "I like you," some say, "I love you," and some carry other messages.

Most romantically motivated affection, at least when you're young, is geared around what you, personally, want. You want to behave in a certain way because you enjoy it, or because you think that it will lead to things that you enjoy. It's rarer to do something just because you know that the other person would enjoy it. (Are you rubbing her feet because you have a foot fetish, or because you know that she enjoys it? Are you happy with just her gratitude, or do you hope that she'll express that gratitude by doing something for you that you enjoy?)

Someone expressed physical affection toward me in a way that probably carried no reward for him. It doesn't come with bragging rights or rank anywhere on the "bases" list. Yet he did it not only unprompted, but willingly. It also carried the message, "I am so lucky to be here, with you." It was - delightful. Sometimes, when I need a pleasant memory, I call that one up. If I'd known how rare those moments are, I would have enjoyed it even more.

It took a long time for me to learn how and when to express any interest in someone. People asked me, when I was a teen and long afterward, "Why didn't you take the initiative and ask someone out?" My usual answer was, "If they wanted to go out with me, they would have asked." I was not about to put some guy on the spot, and risk either a pity date or rejection.

The first time I chose to make a pass at someone, it was someone who'd already kissed me in a non-platonic fashion. That made it safe, I hoped - I had no wish to have him be horrified.

I don't think he was horrified, but he said, "I think we should stop." Ouch. It wasn't any behavior that was morally objectionable. Neither of us was cheating on someone or touching forbidden places or undressing. Man, rejection stings. It was very painful. Everyone has to learn how to deal with it, but it doesn't make that first time any easier. Or, any subsequent time.

I never want to date again. I am not just the marrying type, I am the married type.

Which is good. I've spent more time married than I spent single. I intend to stay that way.

Sometimes, though, I still wonder about being pretty.

One friend told me that it's tedious and predictable. Another told me that it's a great tool for getting what you want. Another said that it means constant fear that you'll lose it.

I don't know. So, I wonder. Not that it matters.

And there's life in that Martian colony to consider.

Prom Memories

                I've often wondered whether or not I should have asked a boy to go to the prom with me. Of course it's a moot point, and has been for years, but I'm sure I'm not alone in mulling over these useless questions. Maybe I would have had more fun with an actual date, and maybe not. I certainly would have a less interesting prom story, though.

                I was only a little bit disappointed when I didn't attend my junior prom. Somehow it seemed kind of like a practice prom. I hoped that by the time my senior prom rolled around, I'd have a date.

                Of course, the entire idea of dating was terrifying too. I had a lot of male friends, and I was very comfortable with them. Dating was different, though. Dating looked scary. Even with the guys I hoped would ask me out, I would break out in a cold sweat trying to imagine something as ordinary as a movie and pizza. What would I say? What would I do? What would he say and do? It was like trying to imagine life on Mars. I'm imaginative, but I just couldn't picture it. I just froze. When you add that to adolescent insecurity and my complete inability to read and respond to non verbal signs of interest, my chances of dating were pretty darned small.

                Besides, the guy was supposed to do the asking, wasn't he? I was sure that if I asked someone, I'd look desperate or needy or infatuated. If it had been a more ordinary event, I could undoubtedly have been comfortable saying, "I don't want to go alone. Come with me." But to the prom? There are few, if any, teenage occasions fraught with more emotional minefields.

                I had intended to skip my senior prom as well. I had no boyfriend and no real reason to go. The prom became a "must attend" occasion in the blink of an eye when I heard that my best friend had been nominated for prom queen.

                I found out before she did.

The nominees were supposed to be extremely hush hush until the formal announcement was made. To a point, though, processes like these tend to be at least fairly predictable, and there were opinions floating around the school as to who the nominees should be.

On the yearbook staff, there were a fair number of girls from the upper echelons of high school society – the varsity cheerleaders, the drill team members. Several members of an extremely close knit group of "in" girls sat at the table right next to where I sat in the publications room. The group consisted of best friends and cousins. One of the cousins had been the fall homecoming queen, and one of the best friends had been winter homecoming queen. It was now accepted among them that all that was needed to make their senior year perfect was for another cousin to be chosen as prom queen. They were pretty sure it would happen, too.

In the publications room, members of the yearbook or newspaper staff sat at tables, grouped by their assigned sections of the publication. For the yearbook, that translated into classes, activities, organizations and the like. My junior year, I sat with the advertising/faculty section, since that's where my best buddy was. The photographers didn't have a table. They worked in the darkroom, were out on assignment, or just kept to themselves. My senior year, I couldn't sit by Ariane like I had the year before, since she wasn't in the classroom. So, I sat on top of a large desk just inside the door, right next to the teacher's desk. The only other photographer sat by himself in the back of the room, usually on the floor. A talented guy with equipment costing many times more than mine, he was aloof and intimidating. I don't think we said more than a dozen words to each other in the two years we worked together.

As far as I know, none of the yearbook staff members were on the nominating committee, but the "in" girls obviously knew someone who was. Since I was pretty much invisible to popular people, they talked as though they were alone, even though I was about 18 inches from their table. One day, I got an earful about the prom queen nominations. They had not been announced yet – they wouldn't be for another week or so – but someone had given these girls a peek at the list. They knew who all the nominees were, and they were furious to find that Girl A was not on the list. They were livid at finding that Ariane was. She had, in their eyes, STOLEN the spot DESTINED for Girl A.

They had little quarrel with most of the other nominees, but Ariane's inclusion made them furious. She was not skinny, she was not popular, and she was not a cheerleader or drill team member. "She doesn't even do anything!" was repeated over and over again. Oh, sure, I thought. She's just been freshman class president, spent 4 years on the tennis team, 4 years in the drama guild (three of those as an officer), 2 years on the Academic Olympics team and 2 years on the debate team (winning awards in both), 2 years in the Honor Society, 2 years on the yearbook staff, 4 years in the French Club… here, of course, is a girl who doesn't do anything. "You should be on there, not her," they consoled Girl A repeatedly. She waffled between distraught and furious.

After class, Ariane and I always met at a particular corner in the halls. I couldn't wait to get there and tell her. "Guess what?!" I was ecstatic. She was not.

"No! That can't be right."

"It is! It is!" I told her. Knowing that she already disliked Girl A, I told her about the reaction. "She's furious," I gloated.

"But I'm not even going to the prom!" Ariane wailed.

"You are now," I said smugly.

She tried to think of some way to refuse the nomination, but there wasn't one. Her assigned escort was a great guy, someone we'd both known for years. He managed to be both one of the smart kids and one of the jocks. She was at least OK with the idea of winning or losing with him. She needed an actual date though – her escort was going with his girlfriend. She and Joe Beard, her debate team partner and close friend, decided to go together.

That left me with the problem of who to go with. I wasn't going to go alone, and I wasn't going to tag along with the two of them, even though it wasn't a "real date." I hated it when friends took me along on their dates. It happened fairly frequently.

I planned at first to go with Lana, the third member of our little triumvirate. She'd dropped out of school, but I didn't think you needed to be a student to attend; you just needed to be with a student. She ended up not being able to go; I don't remember why. She probably had to work. So, I was again escortless.

Asking someone to go with me was an uncomfortable proposition. I'd never been on a date at all, and I didn't want to be the one doing the asking on my very first date. I especially didn't want to be asking someone out to an occasion as emotionally loaded as the prom. If it had been an awards dinner or something less intimidating, I might have felt comfortable asking a friend of either gender. To the prom, that seemed out of the question. It wasn't a buddy event. It was a date event, a romantic event. I was worried that if I asked anyone, they'd assume romantic intent, especially if I said there was none. There was an age problem, too. I'd feel most comfortable asking someone like Joe English to go with me, but he was a sophomore. I wasn't sure how much of a faux pas it would be to bring a sophomore to the senior prom, especially since we weren't dating.

Waiting for someone to ask me was more than problematic. Having never been on a date, I wasn't going to hold my breath until someone decided I was the perfect girl to ask out. I was sure – I still am – that nobody was waiting for the chance to be my prom date.

A large group of us went to see the movie "Footloose" one night shortly before the prom. We were standing in line, about a dozen of us, when I started to complain about my prom dilemma. I vaguely hoped that someone would speak up and offer to go with me. You've heard it said that you should be careful what you wish for?

Scott, a freshman, said, "I'd go with you, but I have nothing to wear." Alaina, another freshman, piped up, "We're about the same size. I have a formal you could wear." In another group, we would have snickered and the whole thing would be forgotten. In our group… in less than five minutes, the plan was made. Scott would go with me, in Alaina's white lace formal. We would tell everyone he was my cousin Sandy from, I think, Arkansas. We'd go with Joe and Ariane.

What my mother thought about this insanity, I don't know. She didn't say much. To her enormous credit, she rarely criticized any hijinks. If it wasn't immoral, illegal, hurtful or dangerous, well, OK. So her youngest child was free to attend her high school prom with a freshman in drag.

We went up to our friend Kathy's house to get ready on the day of the prom. Kathy, one of Ariane's oldest friends, was going on a traditional, romantic prom date with her boyfriend, Tim, but she was more than happy to help the three of us get ready. I have a snapshot of Kathy in her prom gown and Scott in nothing but shorts as she curls his hair. The next shot is of the two of them with Scott's hair and makeup finished, looking convincingly female from the neck up while still a shirtless male from the neck down. It was surprising that he made such a cute girl.

I don't remember if Ariane or Kathy did my hair, but I had one of them French braid a section, working a pale blue ribbon into the braid. The ribbon was from a bouquet of balloons that Tony, another best friend, had sent the cast and crew of "Arsenic and Old Lace" the previous spring, delivered onstage during our curtain call. It closely matched the blue ribbons in my dress, and was my one hint of sentiment. I hadn't even bought a new dress; I was wearing the formal I'd originally bought for the Thespian banquet when I was a freshman. I loved that dress – floor length white cotton and eyelet accented with pale blue ribbons and lacing up the bosom.

Ariane and I had bought corsages for ourselves and "Sandy," and I think we bought Joe a boutenniere. We'd taken her VW bug to the car wash to get it ready for us to ride in, but Joe had since borrowed his uncle's green sports car. It was a much more prom worthy vehicle. Joe picked us all up – three "girls" in frothy formals.

We'd decided on dinner at McDonald's. We brought along a satin tablecloth, silver candlesticks and white candles that had unfortunately wilted a bit from being next to the car's heater. Another friend, Tim Lange, walked down to McDonald's just for the kick of seeing us. We ordered the 20 piece box of McNuggets and two large fries, plus soda.

The restaurant was virtually empty, except for us. The employees had stared at us as we came in, and kept staring while Ariane fixed the table and I ordered. Someone went into the back to get the manager, who came out and stared at us. I will never forget the flabbergasted look on his face. When they called our number and I went to pick up the food, the manager told me there would be no charge. He even threw in extra food. I don't know if that came from pleasure at watching us spend our prom night there, or pity that we couldn't afford a fancy dinner, or even amazement, but it was OK with us. We all knew the employees would go home that night and start telling stories that began, "You'll never believe…"

Tim played waiter, draping a towel over his arm and offering Joe the soda so he could sniff the straw. Since he wasn't going to the prom, it was his chance to be part of the madness. There was virtually no other business in the restaurant, so the employees all stood at the counter and stared at us while we ate.

Once at the prom, we sat at a table with Tony and his fiancee, Jeanette. I believe Kathy and Tim Groves were at our table, too. I danced one dance, with Tony. I stepped on his feet at least three times. Most of the rest of the time I spent waiting rather impatiently in overly loud music to hear the announcement of the prom king and queen.

I knew Ariane was a long shot, but I was hoping that all the members of the senior class who disliked the popular kids would vote for her and Stuart. Rather predictably though, Robert Escobar and CiCi Cook won. They were both popular kids and a widely recognized Adorable Couple. At the announcement, Tony spread his arms out and snapped, "Nobody clap!" I clapped anyway, briefly and without enthusiasm.

Several of my friends were on the prom planning committee, so I'd been privy to a bit of the planning. They'd been very annoyed to discover that another area high school had chosen the same theme they had. Since the other prom would be held first, our school's committee decided, amidst much griping, to change our theme. "We had it first, but everyone will think we're copying!"

Their second choice was "Somewhere Down the Road." That on its own sounds OK. In reality, it meant that the victory dance for our prom king and queen was to a song that began, "We had the right love at the wrong time." The entire song is about breaking up. It was just goofy watching this supposedly romantic, victorious moment take place to such an incongruous soundtrack. I wondered if any of the committee had considered the lyrics when they chose the song, or if they hadn't scrutinized any further than the title.

Scott – er, "Sandy," – was actually asked to dance once. His dance partner was a fairly popular guy who swore ever after that he'd known Scott was a guy in drag and he was trying to blow his cover. As far as I could tell, in the dimly lit, hormone laden environment, nobody paid much attention until one fateful moment. Scott came up to me, eyes wide, and said, "I have to use the bathroom. Which one do I use?"

Ah, what a quandry. We decided that, of course, he'd have to use the ladies' room. That meant leaving the dark, packed ballroom, walking down the bright hallway and into the brighter, crowded ladies rest room. I instructed him: "OK. I'll go in first, and you just follow me. Don't look around, don't talk to anybody, just follow me. I'll stop in front of the first empty stall." In we went.

It was almost as packed in the rest room as it was in the ballroom. With Scott in tow, I plowed through the assembled crowd.  All kinds of girls were crowded in front of the mirrors, fixing their makeup and checking their hair. All the stalls seemed to be full. Oh, crud. I kept walking straight ahead, making no eye contact with anyone lest they stop me to talk. At the far end of the enormous room – it must have held almost two dozen stalls – there was an empty one. In went Scott. I used the stall next to him, more so I'd have a purpose for being in the restroom than because of actual need.

Maybe it was the bright lighting. Maybe it was the pause while we washed our hands, or the rush in and out. Maybe it was female intuition, or just the first chance anybody'd had to see "Sandy" up close. Whatever it was, I saw realization dawning on face after face. Oops, our cover was blown! Better get out before someone screamed that there was a man in the ladies rest room!

We giggled on the way back to our table, told everyone else, and waited for someone to approach us, screaming in outrage. Nobody did. Then Scott had another idea. "Hey! Why don't we leave, I'll come back in guy clothes, and we'll tell everybody I'm Sandy's brother."

"Sandy's supposed to be my cousin! You can't be her brother! People know who you are."

"Where are you going to find a tux? You can't come back in regular clothes!" We did not immediately find this idea as brilliant as Scott did.

"Come on! They've already figured it out! Let's go!" He was antsy. "Joe English is about my size, and he has his own tux. He wears it for Youth Symphony stuff." Always up for an adventure, he was anxious for a new game to play. So, Ariane and I left, taking Scott to borrow his second formal outfit of the night.

Joe was mildly baffled at our abrupt appearance requesting his tux. I wondered if he felt left out of the whole thing. Even if he was, he gamely offered his tux and watched us all go back to the prom.

I remember watching Scott, in his gender appropriate clothes, stride back into the ballroom like he owned the place. Still, nobody walked up and said, "Hey! Weren't you just here in a dress?" Nobody of either gender asked him to dance, either.

I don't know if anybody ever said anything to Scott about the escapade. The next Monday morning, someone said something to me.

I had yearbook second period. That Monday, after a whispered conference at the table closest to me, the homecoming queen approached me. "Are you the one who took a freshman in drag to the prom?" she wanted to know. I don't think she was prepared for my response. I beamed and said, "Yes! It was!" I looked at her expectantly, as if I thought she'd ask for all the details. In reality, she rarely spoke to me at all.

She looked confused. All she said was, "Oh," before she scuttled away as though she thought I was contagious. I don't know what anyone outside the drama guild had to say about the whole thing. Nobody else ever asked me about it again.

I'm willing to bet that the four of us have the most unique prom story of any of our classmates. It was worth not having any romance that night.

OK. That's Your Problem, Right There

I'm not sure how long ago I wrote this, but I make reference to having a preschooler in the house. My youngest is going to be 13 on her next birthday, though, so it's been a while.

I'm at least reaching the age at which no one expects me to suddenly change my mind and, say, become a 3 pack a day smoker. That's nice. When I say that I don't drink or otherwise indulge, there's usually enough 12-steppers around me to say, "Me either!" and just accept it as a matter of course. When we were all teenagers or twenty-somethings, the responses were often quite different.

I like to think that my cluelessness factor has diminished. I'm sure it has, by infinitisimal degrees.

You'd think that, as a very solitary and introspective person, I would have loved being single. I didn't. I am not in any way suited to a life of dating. If my husband keels over tomorrow, I won't be as truly pathologically clueless as I was as a teenager, but it still wouldn't be pretty.

Or maybe my form of tunnel vision is a blessing.

***************************

I've spent a good portion of my life being told that I think differently than most people. I didn't believe it. Although I try not to, I make the same mistake most people do. I base my suppositions about other people and their behavior on the way I behave. Surely, I thought, most, or at least many, people think the way I do. Psychologically speaking, this is called "projection." It means projecting our thoughts and feelings onto others.

I still believe that many people think the way I do. I'm just starting to come to terms with the fact that I won't meet these people during my natural lifetime.

I was discussing the T.V. show "Blue's Clues" with a friend, who also has pre-schoolers in her house. For the uninitiated, "Blue's Clues" has one live action actor. The rest of the show, virtually everything and everyone he interacts with, is animated.

We were both in agreement that he probably spends most of his time in front of a "green screen," a wall that allows the animators to isolate his image from the background he was filmed on, and place his image on the animated background. We were not in agreement about how this affected him. "This guy must do some heavy duty drugs," my friend said. As a person who has never even experimented with drugs, legal or otherwise, I am tired of hearing this about entertainers who gear work toward children – Mister Rogers, Walt Disney, even Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter.

"What makes you say that? Am I the only person on the planet who doesn't think these things?" I demanded.

Her response was a resounding, "Yes!" "Think about it," she went on. "He spends all day in a bare room, talking to tennis balls on the end of broomsticks, so his eyes will be going the right direction."

"Yeah? So?" I wanted to know.

"That wouldn't creep you out? You wouldn't go crazy, having to do that every day, and be perky?" she wanted to know.

"No."

"OK," she said, "that's your problem, right there."

And here I thought it was her problem.

For the record, I was also told by a freely experimental friend, when we were both about seventeen, "You know why you don't take drugs? It's because you think that way anyway." Since this friend was effusive about the mind expanding, knowledge gathering "benefits" of drug use, the speaker meant it to be a compliment, and I took it as such.

Even as a teenager, I was simply never interested in drug experimentation. I felt no need to see what the big deal was, see what everyone else found so appealing, or try it just to say I'd tried it. I feel the same way about alcohol. It's a depressant – like we all need THAT - it makes you act ways you normally wouldn't, and overindulgence will make you sick and perhaps cause memory loss. Oh, and it's expensive and calorie laden. If that didn't make up my mind, the fact that it was illegal for someone of my age to drink it would have. Smoking? Expensive, smelly and deadly. And, have you ever watched an addict of any kind be cut off, even temporarily? "I'm sorry, sir, there's no smoking on this flight." They're miserable! I don't want to hear how relaxed they feel when they have their fix. I've seen how they feel when they don't.

I am not particularly proud of the fact that I've never tried these things, because it's taken no willpower at all. Zero. It's like my eye color, something I was born with. An alcoholic friend of mine used to tell me, "You must be the strongest person I know. You don't need any help to get through the day." I tried to explain, "It's not like I'm thinking, 'Gee, I'd love a beer' and denying myself one. I just don't want it," but he couldn't relate.

I have a friend who is convinced that if he keeps offering me booze, I'll eventually drink it, maybe just to shut him up. We look like a stale song and dance routine. One day I decided to shake him up. He'd offered me a can of beer. I exclaimed, "DAVE! You have been an instrument of enlightenment! That's what's been missing from my empty, meaningless existence! Beer! Thank you for saving me!" He stared at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look. His best friend, sitting next to him said, with beautiful comic timing, "So that would be sarcasm, then?"

I also discovered that in my perception of sexual matters, I'm usually on a different page than anyone else. This, frankly, is the same naivete that so often does me in.

When I was thirteen, the carnival came to town, like it did every year. My sister was 16, had a car, and we were old enough to go on our own, so we went.

We had very little "discretionary income" in the family I grew up in, so we didn't have a lot to spend on rides, and even less on games. I soon discovered that it didn't matter. Most of the carnival workers started giving us extra time on the rides, then extra rides, and finally we could just walk up, say "Hi," and get a free ride. A couple of the guys at the games started doing the same thing, letting us throw the darts for free. "It's a slow night," they'd tell us. "You're keeping us from getting bored. Plus, if you look like you're having fun, more people might stop." Aside from being frightfully naïve, I'm very literal, so I took it all at face value.

By the time we left, we were on a first name basis with several of the "carnies," and we'd been invited back "anytime," money or no money.

This was great! The next night, I brought one of my best friends. We had a ball. The two of us came back the next day, as several of the guys made it clear that they wanted us to.

The third night, I was standing in line for a ride I'd been on probably a dozen times already. The operator, while he made conversation, asked, "How old are you?"

I replied, "Thirteen."

He looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. When we got off the ride, he wouldn't look at me. Suddenly, nobody seemed able to give free rides or free games. There were mumbled excuses that they were too busy, or that the boss, whoever that was, would get mad. They didn't look any busier to me, but nobody "had time" to make conversation, even when there was nobody in their line. Nobody even wanted to make eye contact. I left puzzled and hurt.

When I got home I asked my sister what she thought the problem was. She looked at me like I had the I.Q. of a carrot, a look she used on me often, and said, "Have you ever heard the term 'jailbait?'" I either hadn't or hadn't made the connection, because I remember her explaining to me, "It means they'll go to jail if they have sex with you."

I was absolutely appalled. "They didn't want to have sex with me!" I was already a veteran of schoolgirl crushes, and had had my first boyfriend, my best friend's brother, from whom I received my first experience hand holding, and my first kiss, but the idea of sex was absolutely alien. And with adults? How gross! What was she thinking?

She continued The Look. "Why do you think you got all those free rides?"

"Because they like me!"

"And why do you think they like you?"

"Because I'm nice!"

We continued this circular discussion until we both went away in a huff, each convinced that the other was delusional.

I was quite literally well into adulthood before I conceded that she'd been right.

I would watch movies or T.V., or read books, and wonder how in the world the characters could figure out the unspoken sexual codes and messages. What if, "Would you like to come in for a drink?" really meant come in for a drink? When did "You look lovely" change from a compliment to an invitation? Most importantly, how did everyone seem to know? I decided it was because they were characters. They did, said and thought whatever the writers decided. The writer knew when people were pursuing a relationship, so the characters did too.

I wasn't much better in real life. Once, in my sophomore year of high school, I was at a restaurant with a group of friends. Two of them were dating, and they were "playing footsies" under the table. Mid-way through the meal, I felt a foot sliding up and down my leg. I was wearing a dress at the time. So was the girlfriend at the table, who was sitting next to me. I assumed her boyfriend had the wrong leg. "Frank, that's me, not Donna," I said.

"What?"

"That leg. You've got mine, not Donna's."

"No, he doesn't," Donna said.

"Yes, he does!"

Now Donna was amused. "No, he doesn't."

I couldn't for the life of me figure out what was going on. Donna couldn't mistake my leg for Frank's, not with me in a dress. I ducked down and looked under the table to find who owned the phantom foot still caressing me. It belonged to the guy across the table. I looked up at him in wide eyed astonishment. He grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

I had no idea what to do. Was I supposed to rub back? Slap him? What did he want, anyway? He was a friend, but not a close enough friend that I could say, "What exactly are you doing?" Everyone else at the table now seemed clear on what was happening. Why was I the only one lost, when I had to decide? I was miserable.

I chose to stare down at my plate with complete concentration. In a few minutes, the foot stopped rubbing. He said nothing to me, and I said nothing to him, for the rest of the night, even after I stopped staring at my food. I thought he was angry at me, but I didn't know why or what to do about it.

Poor guy, he was fairly distant for a while after that, confusing me even more. Did he like me, or not? And, how much? Eventually, we started talking to one another fairly comfortably again, but he never repeated the mistake of touching me.

Years later – and I mean, YEARS later; I was probably already married - I decided that it had been "a pass," and he felt incredibly rejected – and publicly embarrassed – by my reaction. I had no idea at the time.

I got used to kissing hello and good-bye rather casually, and only rarely romantically. It was hard for me to figure that out, too. Once, a male friend, (who'd shown a bit of romantic interest in the past,) ended up in the classic movie situation of being over, almost laying on, me while I was lying on my back. He said nothing, I said nothing; he just sort of paused for a very long time. I thought very seriously about kissing him, but I figured either he'd be offended that I was so presumptuous, or I'd do something really awful like kiss his nose, or I'd have such terrible smelling breath that he'd be grossed out, or some other unimaginable horror, so I did nothing. He probably thought the same thing the kid with the restless foot thought – "Geez, she either hates me or she's really dense."

Really dense. Sorry, guys.

I didn't date until after I'd graduated from high school. Don't be amazed that I started late. Be amazed that I ever got the message. My date and I worked together, and he'd say vague, cryptic (to me) things like, "Food?" or "What do you like to eat?" It took weeks to figure out that he was asking me on a date.

I married him. The proposal is an entirely separate story. The point here is that even though we dated for two years after I figured out that he wanted a date, I've only dated one person, so I'm still kind of clueless as to how it all works. For the sake of everyone involved, I don't ever want to be single again. I don't "get it."

Gender Blindness

I wrote this more than a decade ago. I was writing recently about the number of other people's dates that I've been on as a 3rd wheel - yeah, I'm sure you'll end up getting to read about that, and some of you have known me long enough to remember those dates - and I remembered this essay. It was very painful and confusing for me to figure out, as a middle aged parent, things that most people probably got a handle on long about puberty. Still, in spite of the difficulty and confusion, I do think things would be better if they were the way I always thought they were.

**************************************

I found out, years after the fact, that when I first met my husband he was intimidated by the number of male names in my conversation. It wasn't just the references to movies with Scott and Mike or lunch with Darren, it was talk of entire vacations with Tony, Guy, Joe, Andy and the like – the weekend in the Bay Area, the trips to Disneyland. No one I knew ever assumed that I was dating any of the guys attached to these names, so it never occurred to me that any one else would.

For one thing, trips were never one on one, just me and a male. It was usually large groups of us. I remember going through Disneyland confounding the ride operators by answering, "15," when they asked, "How many in your party?" For another, I've inherited a bit of my mother's habit of assuming that if I know something, so does everyone else. Mostly, though, I thought there was an invisible but unmistakable sign around my neck that forever branded me The Buddy, never ever to be confused with The Leading Lady. Growing up, my friends all seemed to see it.

Dan, on the other hand, assumed that with all kinds of men in my life, I must be fielding all kinds of offers for dates (or more.) I guess that's actually a prudent assumption to make if you're going to be asking someone out. He was sure these men were at least potential rivals.

A woman I met in adulthood still has trouble believing that I was one of the guys. She's sure none of them could have missed unmistakable signs of being female, like breasts. They all noticed that I had them, I'm sure, but I still wasn't considered a girl. I was gender neutral. The only time they thought of me as being a female is when they came to me for romantic advice, as in, "You're a girl. What do girls like?" I could never understand why they asked someone who never dated for dating advice. When I'd bring it up, though, I was always told that it was because I had access to secret girl thoughts, because girls would talk to me about guys. Girls, of course, asked me things too, but it was usually rhetorical – "Isn't he gorgeous?" My male friends wanted actual battle plans. How do I impress her? How do I ask her out? Where should we go? I wanted to snap, "How should I know?" I knew how to impress me, not anybody else.

One male friend actually overlooked the whole gender thing to the point that he actually said to me, "Don't ever get a girlfriend, Sharon. They're too expensive." When I responded, in a withering tone of voice, "I don't think that'll be a problem," he said, "Oh, you know what I mean." Well, no, I didn't, but I assumed he didn't actively mean to be either brain dead or offensive.

Dan did not grow up in a world of platonic relationships. When he heard me mention going places with someone named Tony, it would no more have occurred to him that it was platonic than he would have assumed that a sound heard in the woods was Bigfoot (in whom he does not believe). It was simply not part of his reality. In his reality, "platonic" meant either, 1. The girl you liked didn't like you back, or 2. It was part of a ruse used to get close to a girl without admitting that you were interested. Remember the speech in "When Harry Met Sally" about how she only thought she had male friends? That was pretty much how Dan felt.

As an adolescent, Dan wanted to grow up to be a swinging 70's disco god. I wanted to grow up to live on the equivalent of Sesame Street, where it not only didn't matter what color (or gender) your neighbor was, it didn't even matter if they were human. We inevitably experienced culture clash.

It didn't take him too very long to decide that I really wasn't dating any of these guys. It took a lot longer for him to formulate an opinion as to why. He was making First Contact with an alien race.

I still struggle sometimes with understanding how or why male and female friends are different. If I could talk to one about buying underwear, or childbirth, or why I hate pantyhose, why couldn't I tell the other? If I spent time on the phone, or shopping, or going to lunch with one, surely it was OK to do it with another, plumbing notwithstanding. I wasn't going to be having sex with any of them. When I was growing up, none of this was a problem. After reaching adulthood, no one seemed to understand or expect it.

Whenever I couldn't make it to some event Dan wanted to attend, I'd always call a girlfriend of mine to go with him. He won't attend any kind of event alone, and it seemed silly to call a guy friend. If he wanted a guy to go with, he could call one, right? I had no problem with this. I thought it was very funny when one of his coworkers was flustered by Dan's appearance at the company dinner with a lovely woman who was not his wife. I was extremely annoyed when I was house managing a play and an usher became quite worried when my husband and best friend showed up together. If it was a secret that they were together, they would have gone somewhere else, wouldn't they? I was just sure the intentions were obvious.

It was also alternately funny and puzzling when it was me out with a male friend because my husband could't attend the function, especially when I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a long time. They had no idea quite what to think. I remember attending a theater company dinner and introducing my escort as, "This is my friend, Tim." One woman said, nervously, "That's nice. Did I tell you that I'm getting a divorce?" I didn't understand such people. I just thought they had a very narrow view of the world.

I grew up in a church in which people are often affectionate, physically and otherwise. Men were just as likely as women to hug you, pat your shoulder or knee, kiss your cheek, walk down the hall with their arm around you or offer you any kind of help. Age and marital status were immaterial. Men could, and did, comment that it was wonderful to be surrounded by beauty when they were in the Young Women organization for 12 to 18 year olds, just as they did when they were visiting in the women's organization. They might also stand with their arm around you at a public function, even if you were both married to other folks. Nobody worried that this was inappropriate. When I was a sophomore in high school, my bishop held a co-ed youth group sleepover at his house. (In later years, when such co-ed functions were no longer allowed for church youth groups, I thought decidedly judgemental and angry thoughts about the people whose bad behavior had forced the policy change.) If the rest of the world wasn't that way, I was just unaware.

I had to change my mind after I discovered that there were actually people of both genders who misinterpreted my behavior. Aside from basic gender blindness, I was sure that my status as a very married, large, religious mother of four precluded any such misunderstanding. It was quite traumatic to find out that I was wrong.

A friend had become convinced that I was hitting on her husband. To make matters worse, her husband also thought so. He never said anything, and she waited until she was utterly furious before she brought it up. She simmered for six months or so before blowing up at me. I had to ask what, exactly, was bothering them.

The examples she gave me made no sense to me. "You always laugh at his jokes. You always sit by him even when there's other empty seats. You go talk to him when you're having problems." Well, sure. Guilty as charged. It wasn't an invitation to fall into bed. Luckily, she had been around me in various settings enough to see what I meant when I said, "I treat everybody that way." If the jokes are funny, I laugh. Sometimes I'll laugh louder if they aren't funny, to save the joke teller from that horrible, crickets chirping silence.

I was in a play at the time, and the 18 year old ingenue frequently sat on my lap while I brushed her hair. She often joked that she and I were having an affair, and the lighting tech told her every time that she had to bring in video. (I wondered whether this behavior wasn't her way of avoiding being too chummy with the single guys. She was adorable and perky and 18, and everyone noticed.) One of the men in the cast, a 19 or 20 year old college student, had a ritual with me (actors tend to be big on rituals) of my slapping his rear end with my purse before we went out for a certain scene. At work, I frequently brought in things for male co-workers – chocolate chip cookies to share with the other chocoholic in the office, for example. One man in the office called me his "favorite file clerk," even though I was the only file clerk. I never, ever imagined that any of these things would be construed as "passes," and I told my friend so.

As for telling her husband my problems, well, he'd asked. When I'd looked down or distracted, he'd wanted to know why. I'm generally a "too much information" person. There are only a few subjects I don't want to discuss. Otherwise, if you want to know, I'll tell you. Occasionally, if you don't want to know, I'll still tell you. I quite probably have too few boundaries.

I adore your husband, I told her, but I'm not looking to trade mine in. "Anything I've ever said in front of him, I'd say in front of my bishop! He's a great guy, too."

Even though she told me she found it hard to believe that I was "that naive," she did concede that, yes, indeed, I did tend to treat everyone that way. I did discover, though, that there had been other times someone thought I was making a pass, and I thought I was merely making conversation. Who knew that "I missed you," or "Wow, you look great," would be taken as expressions of sexual interest? Not me, certainly.

I have finally had to admit that I've gotten it wrong. There are differences between male and female friends. I can now intellectually explain to you why this is. I can tell you what the differences are. But, deep down, I still feel that the rest of the world just doesn't "get it." I still think there shouldn't be any difference. I've just had to realize that we shouldn't have to have locks on our homes (or cars or what have you), but we have to anyway. Maybe there shouldn't be a difference in friendships, but there is.

I became temporarily unhinged. I thought about all the times I'd scoffed at references to eye contact being a sexual signal. What if it was? How do you go through life not making eye contact, not smiling at people? I did that with everybody – people I passed in the mall, people in restaurants, people where I worked. And, I'd always assumed it was safer to have male friends who were married. That way, I was sure, no signals would get crossed. But they did! What now? And how about compliments? Who could I compliment? Who could I hug? Trying to hash it out with the women I knew wasn't entirely successful. "Some men think you're making a pass at them if you're doing nothing but breathing," one said. AAUUGGHHHH!

I've dated one person in my lifetime. One. I am not equipped to make sense of these situations.

I became terrified of saying or doing anything. My usual yardstick – does it bother me or my husband? – had proven to be worthless. My past experience had proven unreliable. What now? My desk was at the far end of the office; everyone had to pass it to get to the break room, the bathrooms or the Xerox machine, which was also a shared printer. I'd always looked up from my work, smiled at whoever went by, and made small talk if they were amenable. Now, I spent days staring straight down at my desk, looking at no one, speaking to no one. My nerves were fried.

I asked my husband, "Is it just me?" I asked my friends, "Is it just me?" They were all supportive, but I still didn't really know if it was just me.

I probably still don't know. There's a good chance I won't ever really "get it." But hey, if you're thinking that I made a pass at you any time after 1985, no matter what gender you are, you're mistaken. OK?