Beholder of Beauty

There’s this woman I see everyday at work...Mrs. Sinclair. I always catch myself watching her from a distance. It’s creepy, I know, but I have to. Her jawline is smooth and crisp. Her brunette hair is always so neatly combed back in a messy bun--how a messy bun can be neat is beyond me, but she can do it. On the days we accidentally bump into one another, I catch a whiff of her perfume: Chance, by Chanel. 

“Hey Marcy, how are you today?” she asks.

Her eyes looks into mine and I feel sick, how unworthy I am to taint her perfectly constructed hazel eyes with my blotchy blue. 

“I--uh--I am okay, I guess. What about you?”

She smiles at me with her bleached white teeth, “I am wonderful. Today is me and my husbands five-year anniversary.”

I take notice of her red strapless Gucci dress, which hugs her skin so tightly she might as well as made it her own skin. The flow of her ribs down to her waist show the delicacy the sculpture had been when chiseling away the unneeded stuff; making her exactly what she is--perfect. Her bosom protrudes just enough to catch the men’s attention. Mine, on the other hand, are nothing but old worn out pillows that lack feathers for structure.

“Well, congratulations, then. I am glad you guys are happy. Here’s to more happy years, huh?” I awkwardly lift my invisible glass of champagne pretending to smile.

She hugs me and pulls away by replying: “Aw, you’re too sweet.”
I watch her walk away, her hips having that sway. But hers isn’t intentional, it’s natural. And to make matters worse, she has something that can’t be molded in--she has a contagious personality. I can always hear her making the executives laugh inside the board meeting, and here I am, sitting inside a cubical pushing papers. 

Near the end of my shift, I peek up from the top of my square office space to see her. I catch her leaning against the wall, right beside the copier machine. She bites her bottom lip, which is painted a light pink color. Everything about her in this moment makes her appear vibrant and luscious. The world around us stopped and it is just her and I. She looks over to me catching my curious gaze. She smiles and winks at me. I smile back, and then I snap. I jolt back down in my seat covering my face in embarrassment as the world instantly starts playing again. I must admit, my attraction for Mrs. Sinclair has nothing to do with my sexuality, rather, it is a sense of admiration and of a need to understand. There was but one time in my life, I felt beautiful, when the boys would take notice, but me has since long expired. 

When I arrive home get dressed for bed. But first, as I always do, I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is too rough. I am starting to get wrinkles in places, and stretch marks. My blonde hair is fading to white. My thighs touch, and my arms are saggy. My breasts are nothing more than “dirty pillows” as Carrie White’s mother so pleasantly called them. 

My bed, which I lay alone, is haunted. Not by ghosts, but of what-could-be. I could be married with a husband, but clearly I am not. I could have kids that sneak into my room to sleep with me because they are afraid of the dark, but I don’t have any. I ponder and ponder until my mind so consumed by sleep.

The next morning is as it is everyday. I grab my coffee from the coffee shop down the street, I wave at the postman, and I take the elevator to my floor at my office building. I place the coffee on the right side of my desk and get to work. I peek over the rim of my cubicle and, to my surprise, I find to Mrs. Sinclair. I wait a few minutes...and still I don’t see her. I figure she’s just in a meeting, but she doesn’t return. 

An hour and a half later, the door to the elevator dings and a loud gasp explodes from the sliding doors. 
“What is going on?” asks one of the male cubicle workers.

“I am so sorry I am late,” said a woman’s voice. “My alarm clock didn’t go off. Then I couldn’t find my car keys, next was my purse, then my phone and you get my point.”

I stand up from my seat peering over the different desks and I see Mrs. Sinclair, but she doesn’t look like Mrs. Sinclair. Her hair is ratted up in a frenzy, her dress looks like she bought it at a thrift store instead of a mall, and her makeup, well, she has none. 
I get back to work, but after fifteen minutes, I have to get a paper from the printer. Mrs. Sinclar meets me there, her face hung low as if trying to stay under the radar. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I have a--um--a question for you?”
 
“Alright, what is it?”
   
“Do you think I am pretty?”
   
The question hits me like a brick wall. Who is she to be asking me if she is the one who is pretty? “Do I think you’re pretty?” I restate the question.
   
“Yes?”
   
“Mrs. Sinclair, you are probably the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. You are funny, smart, and you just have it all.”
   
She smiles at me, and that’s when I notice a little wrinkles form around her eyes.
   
“That’s too sweet. I have always found you to be the pretty one in the office.”
   
“What?” I ask in surprise. “Me? You’re crazy!”
   
“No seriously. I see how you carry yourself. You’re bold. You know exactly who you are. When you look at someone, you make that person feel like they are the only one that feels important in that very moment. You are so beautiful. I’ve even found myself jealous at times.” Her face grows ashamed and looks to the floor.

“You--jealous--of me?” They are words I never thought I’d ever say in my life. Her is this gorgeous woman, who is the ideal perfect woman, and she thinks of me as beautiful. So much that she has even been jealous of me?
   
I let out a sigh and lift her head up by her chin. “Stop being ashamed. Just be you. That’s all we can do. I see that now.” 
   
I smile at her, and she smiles at me. To think of me as any better than her, or her any better than me--what a silly thought. What even is beauty? It’s so subjective, but on the contrary, it just is what it is: beauty. Like love. Different people love people differently, but everyone everywhere is still loved just the same. The misconception of beauty being found in the eye of the beholder, is that the eye isn’t just a random person’s, it is mine. For I am the beholder of my own beauty, and I see now, that I am beautiful.