I made a declaration and a promise last night.
My body, so ugly, so deformed, so ghastly and hideous and out of proportion, is second best to all of Ron’s other lovers.
And, for the sake of our marriage and our family, I will get over it.
Ron’s former lovers are from privileged, well-to-do, or high social status backgrounds. They are artists, lawyers, daughters of executives. One is Asian, the perfect woman by American standards. They had opportunities that could never have been available to me, even if Hell itself froze over.
Ron loves me and I love him. That’s the big difference between us and his prior relationships. I’ve loved him for over forty years, searched for him in other men, raised his son, watched his grandchildren grow.
He tells me that in his heart, that’s what matters, the advertisers and marketers be damned. I suppose time will tell. I told him that I’m afraid he’ll leave me because “I (count) myself so plain, so poorly made, no honest love could come to me.” I have to be prepared for that by holding back a part of me, protecting it from the kind of suffering that’s dogged me with every other romantic relationship.
Last night, I wrote down all the names of my husband’s exes that I could remember, and all the ways I could survive his rejection – staying busy, moving to a cheaper place, meds from my sympathetic doctor. Through the years, I’ve learned a lot about how an ugly woman can avoid the malevolence of the beauty police as she flies.