Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?

I just returned from a 40th birthday party overflowing with the Beautiful People and I’m feeling a little old, a bit saggy, and Marilyn Manson is echoing through my head…

You know who I’m talking about, right? The Beautiful People? All the girls had salon blown-out hair, chemically golden tans, blindingly white teeth, full makeup (in the pool), fat-phobic bodies (except for their enhanced curves) and microscopic bikinis. The boys were buff, golden, flashing the cash and…well, boys don’t really need much else, do they?

The party was a plastic surgeon’s dream come true. There was so much silicone and saline now floating around the pool I suspected the surgeon was lurking about handing out cards and offering on-the-spot consultations to those admiring his work. I wouldn’t be surprised if the few guests who had crossed the 30’s threshold already had several discrete visits for Botox as well.

The average age, I’m guessing, was about 25.  Keep in mind this was a 40th birthday party. But a McMansion on the lake, a live reggae band, free booze, fast boats, and the promise of fellow Beautiful People to ogle and hit on at seemed to draw them out.

Where did these people come from? None of these people live in my neighborhood. I do not see them at my grocery store or park. I do not know where they hide during the day. The gym perhaps? Swanky office jobs? Upscale shopping venues? Even when I was young, single, and cute I still did not know these people. I don’t know where they congregate at night–I am not hip or beautiful enough I suppose to be included.

And the bikinis… I don’t consider myself modest. I am proud to say that even in my (eek!) mid-thirties and having born a child I will still wear a bikini in public and feel relatively comfortable with myself. But the suits these girls were wearing were about 1/2 the size of my swimsuit. Dental floss, a few beads, and blind faith were all that held most of their bikinis together. And what’s with these new bottoms that look like you have a wedgie before you even put them on? I just looked them up on Victoria’s Secret and found that they are called “cheekies” because they don’t even leave the crack up to anyone’s imagination. How comfortable can they be? I also discovered that’s where most of the girls bought their swimsuits. And heels! I somehow forgot that I am supposed to be wearing 4 inch heels while trouncing around in my bikini…

The boys seemed rather pleased with the views though, to say the least. The few of us who were actually closer to the Birthday Boy’s ripe old age clustered together in a corner of the pool. The old boys just stared in amazement while we ancient girls made catty comments.  There were only a handful of us who were actually married and I was one of only three wives in attendance. The married boys (sans wives) tried to talk around me as they commented and rated the girls, known only by their bikini color. As in Oh Man, check out Pink. Yeah, I bet she’ll be on the Birthday Boy’s boat. Or Damn, where did green go? She is one of my favorites.

{Sigh}

As I was told by them, they are married, not dead. So apparently, we wives are death. Way to make us feel good boys.

I couldn’t even focus on the pretty boys in attendance. Lots of muscle, funky trendy sunglasses (who said huge white plastic frames look good?) and board shorts. By the size of their biceps and darkness of their tans I would assume they don’t spend much time reading or keeping up with current events. I don’t think I could have held a cohesive conversation with any of them. Nothing like a boy who is dumber than a pile of bricks–which is why I ‘ll never understand all the girls who love Jason on True Blood, but that’s another story…

I felt as if I had been transported to Cancun during spring break. I was waiting for someone to break out the beer bong and start the wet t-shirt contest. Maybe the Girls Gone Wild bus paid a visit after we left and the party really got going.

Perhaps these are just the ramblings of a cranky SAHM who is offended by and out of touch with this world of wannabe-nouveau-rich-glitterati.

Or maybe I just like my friends to be like my favorite books: whether their covers are brilliantly enticing or homely and plain, what lies beneath must have beauty and substance to be of value.

Beauty IS in the eye of the beholder.