When we look at someone we jump at a particular set of conclusions and I, narrow-minded pretentious know-it-all, do very much the same as everyone else: I judge people. I judge people on appearances, on the clothes on their back and on their grooming habits. When I see a muscular man whose tight-fitting tank top makes his muscles bulge out even more, I assume the man is an idiot and that he has never opened a book in his life. When I come across beautiful people or so they are called, I can’t help but deem them unworthy of my genius. Because undoubtedly: beauty is the nemesis of intelligence, the antithesis of knowledge, the superficiality to my depth…
I’m one of those less than average looking, self-pitying, why-won’t-hot-guys-sleep-with-me moaners who has spent his entire life trying to prove his worth. Showing to the world that there is more to him than meets the eye because what meets the eye is not pleasing. So when Nature has let you down, rather than defying it, rather than grabbing a dumb-bell and lifting it repeatedly, I took refuge into books, into the mastery of language and the craftsmanship of words. Safely hidden behind a keyboard, I transcend myself, I sublime my being, I transform, mould and bend reality to my will and construct, deconstruct and reconstruct whole worlds where I am the hero, the villain and everything in between. Worlds where my inner-beauty shines through different characters, all equally me, all perfectly distinct and yet one but the same: me. In a world where I distort the image reflected by the mirror and give shape to all that is me. Me, me me…ME!
Unfortunately when one goes to a bar, when one is naked, when all that transpires of you is the sad physicality of your body, your “me” is but saggy flesh and underdeveloped muscles. So, self-defence mode activated, you judge others, the exact same way you wish they wouldn’t judge you.
Dr Spencer Reid says that it is human nature to make assumption based on appearance. That it is an outdated primal instinct which is born of our needs to quickly assess our surroundings. But what need do I have to assess someone’s intellect by the size of their biceps? How dare I disregard someone because of the finesse of their features? Or in other words, why am I such a dick when it comes to those who look good?
Much like Neanderthals, I gauge the danger, I sniff rejections and rather than embrace potential, I neglect anyone whom I consider pretty as a threat to my survival, to my intellect or more appropriately: to my ego.
I was proven wrong not so long ago by what I would have previously described as a muscle-mary. A stunning young man, whose perfectly shaped arms were the size of my thighs, one of those who can make their pectoral muscles dance the samba by flexing them in rhythms. I dismissed his presence at the party as soon as I laid eyes on him but house parties bring people together whether they want to or not and so we got to talking. The man, the modern version of Da Vinci’s David, cited Socrates, Nietzsche and Zweig with ease and while I tried to keep up with the flow of his intricate demonstration, found myself speechless. I had no comeback to his argument because he was right. Not only was he gorgeous but he also was way cleverer than me.
I have, since then, joined a gym…