A Pretty Girl

It took me many years to realize that some lessons passed down to me from my parents were wrong. I celebrate that knowledge, that awakening in me for there are some of us poor humans who never learn to recognize nor learn to accept what is, choosing rather to live in the painful muck and mire of what is not.

She calls me more frequently than I would have guessed since her move to Georgia. We met as disgruntled employees at a job and quickly our venomous thoughts and bitter barbs drew us like together like magnet and metal. We cited long lists of grievances like a homily as we lunched on sandwiches and sarcasm, sent caustic e-mails back and forth trashing co-workers' clothes and lives.

I left the dungeon first. Initially and naturally our conversations gravitated toward the Hellhole and its grotesque inhabitants. Eventually, she left the place too and when I began seeing the long-distance number pop on my Caller ID, I scrambled for the phone.

Like a starving dog with a sole scrap of meat, she would not relent on trashing the Hellhole and its inhabitants. I would rant about the mercurial weather; she would parlay this into a soliloquy on the poor environmental conditions we worked in. I’d bring up my plans for the holiday weekend; she’d segue into how overworked we were at the Hellhole—even on holidays. The substance of our conversations no heavier than onion skin.

The soup of bitterness sloshing inside her remained a mystery to me. Ami is graced with lovely thick naturally auburn hair framing denim eyes, milk-white teeth and a gracious nose. Her skin is clear, smooth, her voice honey-sweet and immediately puts people around her at ease. Her figure slim, tight, a perfect size 6. She possesses the height and tonality of a model even though she hit 40. Men caress her with their eyes at the grocery store, beg her for a date at the dry cleaners and approach her at airports.

But her prettiness scarred her worse than a burn, for Ami never learned that being pretty does not guarantee you a good life, a happy life, a fulfilled life. And she remains spiteful and angry at any other girls—particularly those she deems less attractive—that have managed to sustain a marriage, born children, celebrated the comforts of a home and sweetness of a good life.

Ami believes that her prettiness should have automatically entitled her to a marriage, children, a summer home, two walk-in closets and an early retirement--things she will most likely, never possess.

In her own words, she never dreamed of marriage yet, she can't believe she isn't married. She never imagined children, yet remains incredulous that she is childless. And the fact that as pretty as she is and she doesn't have these things--whether she wants them or not--is eating her alive like an aggressive and insidious cancer.

It's not that she doesn't work hard or isn't smart, because she does and is. She fell into publishing and has done very well. She has lived in several states, all in big cities, thereby shaking the dust of small-town Iowa from her skirts. She is impeccable in dress and demeanor. People seem to fall in love with her in an instant only to be soured later after really getting to know her.

Instead of carving a life for herself--even if it's a total 360 from what she imagined she deserved--including leaving the past behind and facing reality, Ami prefers to gash, slash and eviscerate anyone near her.

Ami ridicules co-workers married to "balding, paunchy" men. She pokes fun at anyone larger than a size 8. She snickers at soccer moms or women donning inexpensive clothes or parents bragging about their kids. Ami critiques everyone's haircuts and colors and looks down on anyone not going to a highbrow salon.

I've been avoiding her calls, e-mails for a while now. After talking with her, I always feel empty and grimy and . . . used.

Last night she called to say she accepted a job offer. I was elated--for her. The conversation began sunny yellow but turned murky brown soon enough. I asked her a lot of questions. About herself. Asked why she chose or not chose certain paths.

She doesn't like talking about herself much; I surmise it's too painful. When she answered, I listened between her words.

I heard the little girl. Pretty in an eyelet dress a little too big and lacy anklets poking out from pearly white shoes--all skinny legs, bony knees and wide smile. This girl grew up believing the world was to be hers because she was pretty. And all she had to do was wait for it all to happen.

But this vision grows dark. The little girl's smile falls downward and her eyes grow big and sad, disappointment overcoming her like a powerful wave.But even as the skies grow dark and clouds gather to storm, the girl doesn't budge. She doesn't know how.

Ami is pretty, she really is. And it's killing her.