My coworker suggested that I should one day collect all my crazy stories from work and my love life and share them. Well, the unpleasant weather has returned and I decided that I should begin this project while I am stuck indoors and procrastinating on working on my senior thesis.

I think I should preface this project by sharing a little bit about myself (or rather, a main outlook I have on life). 

An Apology for Being Shallow

I am not a genuine feminist. This is not to say that I disagree with their views or pretend to care while secretly harboring  tendencies to be a housewife solely devoted to her husband's every need; barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. In fact, after being taught by a feminist literature professor for two years, and more importantly, having several strong female figures in my life, I like to think of myself as a feminist. I'm all for equal rights and asserting one's womanhood, but secretly I contradict my projected views. My true feelings betray my feminist notions.

I’m shallow. There’s not other way to say it. I thrive off of wearing cute clothing, I own so much makeup that I could be a shareholder in the M.A.C Corporation and I desperately want to impress people. That’s right; most of my actions revolve around trying to impress other people, even when it isn’t necessary. Apparently, this urge stems from my lack of self-confidence. No one can really figure out why this lack of confidence exists within me because I am aware that I am intelligent, talented, funny and attractive. Those sound like the words of someone with an ego so large that they may stagger underneath its weight. My ego only exists in theory.  The moment I leave my house and venture into public view, my ego deflates and uncertainty prevails.

 Now, one could argue that everyone has uncertainties, doubts and insecurities about themselves. There are few people so confident that they are completely unabashed by any and all things. I agree that everyone has insecurities, but while the feminist in me declares “It isn’t about looks, it’s about who you are and what is on the inside that counts,” my heart tells me some fat woman with fifty cats told herself that to compensate for the fact that she would die, old and alone. Then fear grips me, dreading that I will turn into an old spinster because I followed those feminist notions, and terrified, I apply another coat of lip-gloss in hope that I will attract attention from the nearest males in my proximity.

 In fact, a compliment received from a male means more to me than one given to me by my best friend. I would rather have a complete stranger think that I am attractive than have the person who knows me better than anyone tell me the same thing. Perhaps this is because no matter what, my best friend would never tell me that I am ugly. Maybe it’s because our society is driven by aesthetics. Either way, shallow, superficial desire drives my action.

Does this make me weak? A psychologist would probably say yes, but I don’t know. Does it make me a bad person? No. Yes, I care about how people look, I care about how I look, but that doesn’t mean I never look deeper. It just takes me a moment longer. This isn’t to say you’ll never see me burning my bra at a feminist rally; I’ll just have to look good doing it.