Beauty And A Bump On The Head In 'I Feel Pretty'

Many years ago, at a party where I was very drunk, I asked a much-desired woman of my friendly acquaintance what it was like to be pretty.

While this sounds like such pathos that it could bring down a nation with one massive cringe, all I remember feeling was curiosity that I felt loosened enough to satisfy. No, really: What is it like? It was that kind of conversation — the kind you have on a deck when you've stepped outside of a crowded room to breathe air. Maybe someone else is out there, maybe smoking. You're interrupted periodically by swells of laughter from inside. You start to talk about things that you otherwise wouldn't, not in spite of the fact that you don't know each other that well as much as because of it. And so I asked her what it was like to be pretty, like I might ask someone what it was like to carry triplets or walk on the moon.

My recollection is that she said it really wasn't all it was cracked up to be.