Is It Normal to HATE Beautiful Girls?

teen prom

There I am, sitting in a late-night espresso bar, waiting for my girlfriend to show. I'm wearing my favorite suede jacket and my M.A.C red lipstick. I'm no beauty, but if I spend hours sequestered in my bathroom, sometimes I emerge looking semidecent.

But just at the height of my confidence, in walks a gorgeous girl, all legs, pouty lips, long blonde hair, packaged in two-by-three square feet of black Lycra. She sits down on the stool next to me. Before I can stop myself, I'm struck with the beautiful-girl reflex. It goes something like this: "Wow, she's gorgeous. Wow, in comparison, I'm dog meat. Wow, I wish she'd fall off the planet and get sucked up by a big black hole and never appear again."

I know it's mean. I know it's immature. But I can't help it. I resent BGs (Beautiful Girls). They intimidate me, threaten me, make me feel like no guy will ever look at me. They drive home the point that no matter how hard I try, I'll never rise to the realms of Truly Beautiful.

One of my girlfriends, Mary Ellen, has a similar reaction. She calls it a "hit and run." "A beautiful girl walks in, runs away with my ego, and leaves me standing there feeling completely miserable, barely knowing what hit me," she grouses.

The cruel irony of it is that I live in Los Angeles — the "beauty mecca" of the world. Because the city is filled with wanna-be actresses and models working part-time jobs to survive, BGs turn up wherever you go — as your bank teller, your traffic-school teacher, and especially as your waitress, the profession of choice for most struggling starlets.

How I long for a waitress with a beehive hairdo and a potbelly who answers to the name of Mabel or Gladys. Instead, at the local dive of a Winchell's, the woman handing me my glazed buttermilk is a svelte siren named Christabelle. Even on a bad-hair day, Christabelle could double for Giselle Bundchen. No pocket of the city, it seems, is beauty-free.

I mean, if I wanted to torture myself, all I'd have to do is open the pages of Vogue or turn on MTV and be inundated with perfect faces and bodies. But I don't expect to be tortured every time I step outside my house.

No matter where you live, there are always BGs. Every city and town has them — scads of them, unfortunately. So I know I've got company in my feelings out there. Okay, tell me the truth. No matter where you live, is there any non-BG out there who can look into her heart and honestly say she hasn't at least felt a twinge of hatred when she's staring pure perfection in the face?

Not to say I'm proud of my feelings. They make me feel small, petty. And it doesn't jibe well with my general philosophy that women need to stick together and be supportive of each other. If the Equal Rights Amendment were ratified today, I'd insist that gorgeous girls be included too.

Plus I pride myself on being a nonprejudiced person. I accept people from all races, all colors — so why can't I open up my heart and cut these BGs some slack?

In fact, these unsettling feelings have been bothering me so much that I decided to turn to a professional for help. I called the Washington, D.C.–based American Psychological Association. They referred me to Debbie Then, Ph.D., a social psychologist at Stanford who is an expert in women and physical appearance.