"You're not pretty enough" is basically a compliment

Recently, someone very close to me told me I was “not pretty enough.” Now, I can't go into detail about the circumstances or the situation, but I want to make two things clear: One, I hold no grudge against the person who made that statement. They were in an unhealthy, unsafe mental place and what they said had no more meaning that what's said when someone is drop-dead drunk. Two, I agree with them. I'd even go a little further in that statement.

I am not pretty at all.

Before you go to rant at me about anything, please hear me out. Look at that definition.

I am not delicate. I am short and stocky: five-two and fluctuating between 150 and 160 pounds. I wear a US size 13/14 jeans most of the time (though some 12s fit, and some do not). My hips measure 40” and my bust is a 38. I don't even care to know my waist number, to be quite honest.

Even if I weighed less, I would never be thin, not really. My hips are too wide. My legs have too much muscle. My thighs will always touch, regardless of my weight—they curve that way, the same way that my knees knock together and make my clumsy. It's just the way I'm built. I will never look delicate, and if I'm healthy and taking care of myself, I will never be delicate. To be delicate would mean that something was wrong with me—in my case, with my build and my health needs, to be or look delicate would most likely mean I was terminally ill or had an eating disorder, neither of which, I hope, ever comes to pass.

I'm also not traditionally attractive. Like I said, I'm short. I'm overweight—maybe not fat, but heavy, yes. My nose is long and hookish. My face is prone to acne and is always too red. I wear glasses because I don't like the effort of contacts every day. There's a bend—almost a hump, really—at the top of my spine. My shoulders slope. My stomach—already big—has extremely evident red and pink stretch marks, to the point where, when people see them for the first time, they tend to ask if I've hurt myself.

My hair, dyed (imperfectly, I might add) green and blue in places, is curly, frizzy, and unruly to the extreme. My nails are bitten and I very rarely wear makeup. When I do indulge in lipstick and eyeshadow, my philosophy is “the more and brighter the color, the happier I am,” which has led people to snicker about me being a clown behind my back. I tend to lean to the hippie side of things, and while I shave, I don't do it often—not my legs, my underarms, or other places. I don't shower every day or even every other day, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm really not.

But wait for a second, please. I have another definition for you.

I've pretty much already been over the first definition; I've long since accepted the fact that I'm not very pleasing to most people's senses. That's fine. That's honestly and truly okay. It's the second definition that I'm interested in.

Look at the definition of pretty again for me. It's a purely aesthetic thing, and it falls short of being beautiful for that very reason. No, I am not pretty, but, contrary to the popular use of the term, pretty is not a lesser-level term that precedes beauty. I can be beautiful without ever even touching pretty.

I'm not saying that I am beautiful. I don't think I can see myself that highly, even in moments like this. What I'm saying is, I can make my goal to be beautiful, to be excellent, without ever once aiming to be attractive of aesthetically pleasing. Yes, I'm short and heavy. Yes, I look even more Jewish than I am. Yes, I eat more than I should and exercise less. But, as much as those things may or may not be good things, I am still more than that. I am a writer. I'm a photographer. I'm a dabbler in most other arts. I am a friend, a sister, a daughter, a confidant. I try and help people. I am a part of this world and this Universe.

If I ever am truly beautiful, it will be those things that make me so. Not my appearance, and certainly not other people's perception of it.

If anyone tells me in the future that I'm “not pretty enough,” my first question will be, “Pretty enough for what? To be found attractive? Good. Start looking past that, and onto the rest of me. Onto the part that matters.”

Which, I can say for certain, is more apt to be found in my head or my heart than on the outside of my very flawed, very un-pretty body.