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My husband when we were first dating: "Cutie-patootee!"
Women peers: "You are just the cutest thing!"
I'm annoyed.
I got my maternal grandmother's hopelessly short genes, the ceiling of her ancestry height maxing out at a tad over 5 ft. I definitely fudge on all formal paperwork that I am a proper 5'1'' and convince myself that rounding up is mathematically correct. I'm pretty sure at 5 and a third of an inch, math would argue I'm 5 ft flat.
My paternal grandparents are from where the round cheeks and button nose descend. My dad's nickname in college was "Babyface," and I could order off of the kids menu well after I started shaving my legs.
I'm not annoyed that I look young. I'll take it.
I'm annoyed that I get treated differently as a result. That at times I am seen as a mini person with mini ideas and mini offerings and a mini presence. "Cute" feels incompatible with the work of purposeful living, a death wish for the me who seeks Bigness . Cute = light, playful, carefree - all of which I am. But Cute also = for show, powerless, childlike, not to be taken seriously, sometimes fully foolish.
Here's the reason, though, I have no case to be annoyed:
I've exploited it.
The very descriptor I detest is one whose shoes I've so masterfully filled. For years - many, many years - I've been experiencing the cognitive dissension of bad mouthing the outer world's response to me as "cute" while playing up its edges like a pro, always cunningly looking for how it can work to my advantage.
Cute wins me things. Cute wins me compliments, cute wins me favors. Cute strategically played up wins quick forgiveness and a turned head to flaws.
Cute also works for men. Cute is not the same as flirting, but the line is dang thin. Isn't it cute that I argue there is a distinction?
The truth: I might like to victimize what "cute" does to me, but I'm winning, laughing all the cotton-picking way to the bank of favor.
The question: Am I willing to stop playing the cute role at the risk of losing a little more?
The quandary: Am I the one selling myself short? (Yes, DAMN IT: pun intended)
I got my maternal grandmother's hopelessly short genes, the ceiling of her ancestry height maxing out at a tad over 5 ft. I definitely fudge on all formal paperwork that I am a proper 5'1'' and convince myself that rounding up is mathematically correct. I'm pretty sure at 5 and a third of an inch, math would argue I'm 5 ft flat.
My paternal grandparents are from where the round cheeks and button nose descend. My dad's nickname in college was "Babyface," and I could order off of the kids menu well after I started shaving my legs.
I'm not annoyed that I look young. I'll take it.
I'm annoyed that I get treated differently as a result. That at times I am seen as a mini person with mini ideas and mini offerings and a mini presence. "Cute" feels incompatible with the work of purposeful living, a death wish for the me who seeks Bigness . Cute = light, playful, carefree - all of which I am. But Cute also = for show, powerless, childlike, not to be taken seriously, sometimes fully foolish.
Here's the reason, though, I have no case to be annoyed:
I've exploited it.
The very descriptor I detest is one whose shoes I've so masterfully filled. For years - many, many years - I've been experiencing the cognitive dissension of bad mouthing the outer world's response to me as "cute" while playing up its edges like a pro, always cunningly looking for how it can work to my advantage.
Cute wins me things. Cute wins me compliments, cute wins me favors. Cute strategically played up wins quick forgiveness and a turned head to flaws.
Cute also works for men. Cute is not the same as flirting, but the line is dang thin. Isn't it cute that I argue there is a distinction?
The truth: I might like to victimize what "cute" does to me, but I'm winning, laughing all the cotton-picking way to the bank of favor.
The question: Am I willing to stop playing the cute role at the risk of losing a little more?
The quandary: Am I the one selling myself short? (Yes, DAMN IT: pun intended)
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