English Supermodels, Klingons, and other Potential Beauties

I was on the phone with my sister the other night during the witching hour, more commonly known as bedtime.

My sister interrupted our conversation to say to one of her twins, “I told you to go get your pajamas on.”

I heard my niece reply, “But I haven’t had a bath yet.”

My sister said, “You don’t need a bath tonight. It's already late. Just go put your pajamas on.”

The response cracked me up. The child answered back, “But we haven’t had a bath in 2 ½ weeks!”

My sister won, of course, and the kid went to bed without a bath. The story is funny because what parent in the history of the world hasn’t fought with a child over taking a bath? And the parent/child bath fights always evolve over time, going from the child hating baths to using a bath to delay bedtime to becoming a teenager who takes 45-minute showers, leaving the rest of the family with no hot water. I distinctly remember the last shower war I had with my children because it was completely different from any I'd ever encountered.

During the summer of 2007, I took my three children to London for ten days. I booked us at the Enterprise (hotel, not spaceship, although the bellman could have passed for Spock). That particular hotel was appealing because it had a room with a private bath and four single beds. That way, my son didn’t have to sleep with a girl, and I could still get us all into one $400-per-night room.

Turns out, that’s where the Enterprise’s appeal ended.

The hotel had no air conditioning. The four single beds had exactly six inches between them and were jammed against the walls. We had to open our suitcases on our beds to get clothes out of them, and then slide them under the beds when we slept. The window opened exactly 3 inches and was covered with a net to keep the pigeons out while still affording the luxury of being able to hear them coo throughout the night. Luckily, England was experiencing a cold snap in July, because if it hadn’t been fifty degrees outside at night, I would have had to sleep naked on the linoleum bathroom floor to keep from sweating, and one of my children might not be alive today.

Not that I got much sleep anyway. All three of my kids experienced serious jet lag, so the first night, they were up until nearly four o’clock trying to figure out why the television only had three channels – the BBC, CNN, and one with 24-hour Wimbledon coverage.

The next morning, we almost missed our tour bus because I couldn’t wake my kids up, and then none of us could figure out how to use the shower, which was basically a garden hose duct-taped to the bathtub spigot. There was no shower curtain, and a sign threatened that flooding the “loo” could get your arse kicked out of the Enterprise (or at least land you in the brig with Scottie, the Irish bartender). The spigot itself was downright confounding; water came out either Baltic-sea cold or hot enough to boil a lobster in. Warm was not an option.

The ensuing fight was over whether or not to ditch the Enterprise and its shower for the $700-per-night Marriott down the street. The kids insisted on moving. Since airfare had already cost me $4,000, I voted to stick with the Enterprise.

I won.

After about four days in the Enterprise, my older daughter, who was completely fed up with the shower and the four-inch square mirror over the bathroom sink and operating on approximately three hours of sleep, was debating whether to use our electrical outlet adapter to charge her cellphone or dry her hair. I overheard her say in frustration, “I hate this place. I can’t achieve my full potential for beauty here. A guy who would be all over me at home wouldn’t look twice at me here.”

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I said, "We're in England, not exactly the biggest breeding ground for supermodels. Diana was a freak of nature. You half beautiful is good enough. Now throw some clothes on, and let's go."

I’ve thought about her words -– "full potential for beauty" -- several times since a reader informed me earlier this week that my attitude makes me unattractive and unlovable.

I guess perhaps I have a different beauty barometer.

The most attractive people I know are those who have given up on the need to impress others. Simply put, they’re real. And since they have no need to fixate on their own flaws, they’re not particularly interested in pointing out the flaws in others.

And some of my favorite people in the entire universe are cynical, sarcastic, snarky, and hysterically funny. They're lovable because they've suffered and have survived with their humor intact. Their cynicism and sarcasm are the tough outer shells protecting their exquisitely tender and compassionate hearts.

You know what I think keeps us from reaching our true potential for beauty? Trying to be anything other than what we are. And trying to force our opinion of how others ought to be on them. It’s called perfectionism, and it’s as ugly as a Klingon and as stinky as a second grader who’s gone 2 ½ weeks without a bath.