by Becky Lucas
The Christmas I worked at Westfield was a regular Queensland summer, which meant it was too hot most of the time. Sometimes the air was so dense and humid that you wouldn’t even notice yourself breathing. One benefit of working in a Westfield shopping centre was being able to spend all day in air conditioning, though it didn’t save me from agitated customers who, having come straight from the blistering heat outside, would arrive red-faced at the customer service counter, already pissed off at the cut of my jib.
It wasn’t just the heat that made people irate. In the days leading up to Christmas, when shops began to sell out of products, everywhere you’d look there were people in the grips of panic. It wasn’t unusual to hear of grown men and women rolling around on the floor, clutching either side of a stuffed Peppa the Pig toy and insisting they had got to it first. Mums would be found bawling their eyes out in the aisles of Smiggle, while fourteen-year-old sales assistants kept repeating that they were sorry but that sparkly notebook sold out weeks ago.
The night before Christmas Eve, myself and a few of the other customer service girls were idling around behind the desk when a man in a hi-vis vest approached, holding about ten bags and a shopping list that, he told me, had been written by his wife. He was looking for a Buddha statue for the garden and all the places he had tried were sold out. He explained that it was the last item on the list and he couldn’t go home until he’d found one. I told him that I empathised, but I wasn’t really sure if I could help him. All I could do was point out a few places that might have one.
As I started reading out from the store directory, his face became red and tears sprang to his eyes. ‘I just tried there! They don’t have any left! I just need a fucking Buddha statue so I can get the fuck out of here!’
Then, as a full stop to what I felt was already a pretty strong outburst, he head-butted the counter, quite hard. He apologised immediately and ran off before I could properly react.
One of the girls leant over and said, ‘Talk about toxic masculinity.’
I agreed, but all I could think in that moment was that I had never felt so sorry for anyone. It may have been a display of toxic masculinity, but toxic femininity was making your husband try to find a Buddha statue in a Westfield shopping centre two days before Christmas.
Thank you to Westfield, for the opportunity to experience what it’s like behind the customer service desk and for teaching me that your 36-hour shopping period is to be avoided at all costs.
Jack
One afternoon, around 2016, I found myself moping around in a house I shared with some friends in Leichhardt, Sydney. It was during a period that I can only describe as the worst part of my twenties – somewhere between the ages of twenty-seven and twenty-nine, when I started to realise that my destructive behaviour was not as cute or interesting as it had once seemed. I was in the middle of processing the end of what was a very difficult relationship, and I use the term ‘processing’ loosely, as I still to this day don’t know exactly what happened there. Even now, I don’t want to write anything too detailed about that particular ex, as the thought of him frantically turning the pages of this book looking for signs of his impact on me and finding nothing (besides this) gives me a sense of satisfaction that therapists would probably describe as ‘unhealthy’.
As I lay on the couch, occasionally breaking from staring into the middle distance to scoop some dip onto a chip, my roommate Gerard came tripping down the stairs and told me he was going to set me up with one of his friends. This particular friend, Jack, had just told him that he was sick to death of dating beautiful women and wanted to start going out with smart ones. Gerard thought I’d be perfect.
This was funny to hear, because now I knew for sure that Gerard did not think I was beautiful. At least he thought I was smart, I suppose, though I had never thought of myself as especially clever.
It didn’t come as a complete shock that Gerard didn’t consider me beautiful. I’m sort of used to it; for some reason, people have always felt very comfortable making comments about how I look, often in the same casual tone they’d use when commenting on the weather or a bright parrot they’ve just seen in a nearby tree. I was once sleeping with a guy who used to marvel at the fact that he could get hard with me, as I wasn’t up to his usual standard – and he would say this brightly, as if he were giving me a compliment.
Because of this experience, I now find myself scared of being complimented, because so often a compliment is followed by an insult. This fear may also be a symptom of talking to people after my stand-up comedy shows. Every time a sentence begins with a compliment about my set, I can feel myself tensing up while I wait for them to get to the bit where they tell me what was wrong with it.
Take the woman who approached me after a set a few years ago. ‘I just think you’re so funny,’ she said, then, before I could feel too pleased, she quickly added, ‘but I hope my daughter doesn’t end up like you.’
I think, from their perspective, it’s because they’ve just seen me onstage having people clap and cheer for me – so, for the sake of my now-overinflated ego, it’s up to them to bring me back down to earth and make sure I don’t feel too good about myself.
The thing is, I don’t! That’s why I’m up onstage yearning to please a crowd of strangers in the first place.
I just seem to encounter these backhanded complimenters everywhere I go. I recently had a girl at a party approach me and tell me that she liked my hair. Before I had time to say ‘thank you’, she added, ‘Because it used to be a bit too thick and puffy.’
I knew it was my own fault for not getting out of there quickly enough. I had foolishly let my guard down and paid the price.
Regardless, I chose to ignore the second part and still thanked her, then turned around in an attempt to find another friend to talk to. But it was too late. She went in for round two.
‘Hey, you’re my age, aren’t you? About twenty-five?’
‘No,’ I replied cautiously. ‘I’m thirty-one actually.’
And her face fell. ‘Aww, that’s okay,’ she said placatingly.
And that’s what can happen if you don’t remain vigilant.
I never thought much about how I or other people looked until I was in my late twenties. In high school, my friends would discuss in detail who among us was the most beautiful and why, but I never had much to add to the conversation. To me, there didn’t seem to be that much of a difference between us in terms of attractiveness; we were all young and glowing and fun to be around.
In order to make someone interested in you, I thought you had to be able to say something smart or cutting, but it turns out you just had to have certain features and measurements, like big boobs and a slightly upturned nose. I don’t know why it took me so long to realise this, because I’m yet to come across a man who’s gotten an erection from laughing at a good quip I made at their expense.
I first came to this realisation about men when I went travelling with one of my beautiful friends, and noticed that while I received polite smiles and was required to pay full price for all my drinks at bars, my friend had men following her up and down the street, tripping up the stairs and ripping their eyes out just to talk to her. Any of the male attention I thought I was receiving was actually ricocheting off her and onto me.
For this reason, I’ve always felt sort of left out when women talk about being harassed by strange, creepy men. I remember years ago, there was a viral video where a woman wearing jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt recorded all the catcalls and wolf-whistles she got when walking along the streets in New York City with a hidden camera. I knew I was supposed to share the video in indignant feminine rage, but a part of me was thinking, Fuck, that never happens to me. If I ever get catcalled or whistled at, I will probably just assume the man doing it needs help lifting something heavy out of a van.
It does seem exhausting being so gorgeous. There must be a weariness that comes from knowing that people are only interested in you because of your looks,
that your looks are being used to signify status to others – and you couldn’t even really complain about it to regular people because they wouldn’t be able to feel sorry for you. For this reason, I’ve always found dating attractive men to be easier than dating a man more on my level, because attractive men are already comfortable in their own looks and they don’t need to prove to the world that they’ve done well by securing a knockout girlfriend. Instead, they’re happy to date women who are less attractive than them but who they find more intellectually stimulating, because that proves that they have depth.
Beautiful people also have the tiring tasks of minimising their beauty for other people’s comfort, and having to constantly let people down without seeming impolite. It’s almost like their looks don’t belong to them and instead exist in the public realm, where they have the power to make people feel so many different ways about themselves.
Several times, I have asked my friend what the best thing is about being beautiful. Each time, she tries to explain it to me, but to this day I’m still not sure what her answer is. I’ll just watch her as she speaks, fascinated by her bone structure and not taking in a single word.
One day, I asked her what the worst thing about being beautiful is. She looked at me with her big blue eyes and lamented that the worst thing was that, when a man broke up with her, she knew it was because of her personality.
I did agree that that was tough – at least when a man ended things with me, I could blame my teeny tiny boobs. The kids I used to babysit all have bigger boobs than me now, and I’m furious about it. When I was a pre-pubescent teenager, I wanted boobs so badly. I used to think about what it would be like to walk around with them and what I’d look like in certain outfits. When my friends started developing theirs, I waited patiently for my turn to come, and it never did. I couldn’t believe it – everywhere I looked people were growing boobs with ease, and all I ever got was two puffy nipples and three hairs that grow out of them every other month.
And to think, some women get more than they need! Every day I see women walking around with uncomfortably large tits, and I think, All I need to be satisfied is just a tiny bit off the sides, if they could only spare some.
I’ll admit, I am sometimes insecure about the way I look. I definitely spend way too much time lamenting what I was given. But I’m also too squeamish for plastic surgery, and too lazy to stick to a strict regimen of facials and spray tans and putting together outfits that highlight my attributes. So instead I try to be thankful for what I’ve got, which is absolutely appreciated. Honestly, I’m happy just to be alive and to be able to experience my time on Earth in a healthy body.
And so, yes, if it’s going on the record, then I suppose I have accepted myself, and most of the time I don’t mind looking the way I do. I actually think how I look gives me a unique insight into the human condition. I’ve always felt that my satisfactory but not extraordinary appearance has given me a certain freedom to fly under the radar, which means I can observe people as they really are – as they’re rarely trying to impress me or have sex with me. At least, not at first – wait until they hear my great anecdote/witty put-down!
And I have managed to do just fine with what I have. I’ve even been told by men who have loved me that I’m beautiful. So I think looks are just whatever you want them to be. If someone likes you enough, they’ll put the effort into deciding you’re beautiful, and that’s actually quite a compliment.
When Gerard posited the idea of me going on this date with Jack, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel like I was ready to meet anyone new. I felt broken and raw from my last relationship and was determined to be unhappy.
But Gerard wouldn’t take no for an answer, and a casual double date was set up for that weekend.
I arrived at the pub with Gerard and his girlfriend in the afternoon. Jack was already there. He was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen, so I decided that, actually, maybe I was ready. I bought myself a white wine – a drink that, when given to women who are poised on top of an emotional mountain with happiness on one side and sadness on the other, risks tipping them to either side with each sip, and you never know which side you might land on.
We all sat around for hours, drinking and talking and, to my surprise, I was coming off quite well. I hadn’t got to the crux of being truly drunk yet, which is usually when all my troubles start.
I know some people who are allergic to alcohol and break out into angry hives because of it. While I don’t break out into hives, my reaction to alcohol is just as unpleasant. See, I have all these thoughts in my head that I don’t say when I’m sober. But when I drink, I become confident enough to share them.
After a while, we decided that we’d go to a stand-up comedy gig at which Gerard would be performing. I wasn’t supposed to be performing at this particular show, but when we arrived I ended up getting talked into it by the guy running the room. It’s all a bit of a blur, but I vaguely remember thinking that maybe this could be good. Jack could watch me do comedy, he would see me being funny and he might even be the one guy who can get hard from laughing. What could possibly go wrong?
I cannot stress enough how much of a horrific disaster it was. It was only when I got up onstage and could barely see that I realised how drunk I was. I was rude and aggressive to the audience and, on top of that, I forgot my jokes. I kept looking into the faces in the crowd, and I could tell they could see how drunk I was and were pissed off. I had to be talked down from the stage by the MC, who felt sorry for me.
I walked back over to the group and Jack was very nice about it all. He could see I was mortified and he assured me that he wouldn’t base his assessment of me on this gig.
It was then that all the emotion I’d been suppressing started to well up. (Blame the white wine.) I missed my ex-boyfriend, I missed my parents (perhaps because I had drunk myself into a childlike state) and I just wanted to go home and sit on the couch and eat hot chips with sauce, alone. I could feel the heat rising into my face and, before I knew it, I began crying in front of Jack. Thinking that it couldn’t possibly get worse, I mumbled some excuse – what that was, I really couldn’t tell you – went to sit down on what I thought was a chair, and found myself folded in half inside one of those round green bins that are large enough to fit a whole girl in them.
So thanks to Jack for being cool about all of that. It means a lot to me that you still occasionally like some of my Instagram posts.
Sport
I love going to the football, because you get to eat like a tradie and scream for no reason – two things I want to do every day but can’t, as it’s been explained to me that such behaviour is ‘annoying’ and I will develop ‘bowel cancer’.
I find the concept of sport very relaxing, because it typically pits people of relatively comparable strength and ability against each other and, within a particular time frame, we usually know who has won and who has lost. There’s a fairness, or at least an attempt at fairness, that doesn’t exist in the real world. (It’s interesting that the idea of a ‘fair and level playing field’ in society is considered so outrageous to some of the very people who insist on it in sport.)
It has recently dawned on me how important referees are in sport, and how little they have to gain from it. They take on the job, knowing that no one will ever have a poster of them on their wall, nor will a movie ever be made about the difficult decisions they’ve had to make. I’ve never heard of a big-breasted woman falling over herself to talk to a referee, and they aren’t ever papped hanging out with the players. They’re tantalisingly close to the sporting heroes of the world, yet I doubt a boy has ever boasted to his school friends about his dad’s profession as a referee – in fact, I imagine it’s got the same stink to it as a staunch lefty admitting their dad is a cop or votes Nationals.
Referees get none of the glory but a lot of the criticism. Does anyone suffer more disrespect than a ref? At the end of the game, depending on whether you’re on the winning or losing s
ide, the referees have either done their job adequately, or they are absolute dogs and should be dead.
These refs are clearly so passionate about the game that they’ve become experts in it, yet they aren’t allowed to appear partial to one side, even though they of all people have the most appreciation for how the game was played. It’s verging on priesthood in a way. In fact, did you know that referees have to take a vow of celibacy in order to pass their final referee exam? Okay, that’s not true – but I bet you believed it.
Yet, for all the flack that referees cop, if a sport were to dismiss all human referees and instead let a computer referee make the decisions with digital precision, all hell would break loose. If it weren’t for that element of human error, what would people talk about and fight over all week until the next game? Referees aren’t just there to facilitate the game; they’re there to act as circuit breakers, so people can blame them instead of the players.
I was at the football with my friends not long ago, sitting a row back from a large group of young, quite obviously private-school boys. It was the sleeveless puffer vests and complete lack of shame about the privileges of cumulative wealth that gave them away.
These types of private-school boys always seem to love their dads in a way that isn’t in any way cute or relatable. Meanwhile, their dads probably stay out until 11 pm on weeknights trying to see how much they can drink before spewing on their ties. I used to think private-school boys like this wanted girls to call them ‘Daddy’ in bed to make them feel dominant and powerful, but I’ve pivoted into thinking that they just want to be reminded of their actual dads. Any opportunity to discuss their father and his future investments. Even while thrusting away, there’s no reason he can’t impress upon his lover just how impressive his dad is. ‘Daddy? Why, yes, he does have his own parking spot in the city!’
