Our parents really pumped us up when we were younger. Like, a lot.
The whole eating disorder pandemic was at its zenith in the mid-to-late ’90s, and lord knows that Larry was not about to be shelling out his hard-earned dinero for the three of us to go to some “wahhh please don’t make me eat that baby carrot” loony resort.
In an effort to head off the travails of tweenage girl foolery, they brainwashed all three of us into believing that real beauty lay in thick manes the color of deep mahogany, eyeballs the color of the Long Island Sound, bods that mimicked the shape of the timer in Boggle, and the kind of chutzpa that hollers to the world “Eat Me.”
So it was a serioso there-is-no-Santa moment when that light bulb finally went off that said “There are a bunch of people out there that are truly, undeniably, irrevocably better looking than you.” Also… “Your entire life up until now is one big LIE!”
For me, it was moving to North Carolina for a few years in middle school. Say it with me people: natural skinny blondes with symmetrical faces won the geneological jackpot. It’s a scientific fact that we frizztastic Jewesses must all sadly face, no matter how top-notch that N.J. might be.
Herewith, observe The Enemy. Look up “guy pretty” in the dictionary and this is what you’ll find. Then hug your boyfriend a little tighter and proceed to bang your head against a wall for a while.