Anna Nicole, Marilyn and Me

This post is going to be a little soul-revealing, so if you get embarrassed by that kind of stuff, you may want to skip it. It's certainly not going to be one of my oh-so-witty send-ups. Also, since I am talking about personal stuff, I would ask that any comments you make be delivered gently, and with respect.

So you've probably heard that Anna Nicole Smith died yesterday. It seems that everyone has an opinion of her, and they are all over the internet. Well, here's my opinion, for what it's worth.

I felt sorry for her. I know, I know. You're thinking: she was gorgeous, rich and famous. I skimmed a tribute page, and one woman talked about how: She had it together, and she didn’t care what anyone thought. That’s so not true. People who have it together don’t abuse drugs or alcohol. And everyone cares what people think. To not care what people think is the definition of a sociopath. Of course she cared. It was clear to me that she was in pain.

To me she seemed like such a pathetic figure. I know she clearly styled herself after Marilyn Monroe, and that fits, because Marilyn was also tragic, needy and desperate for attention. I'm very familiar with Marilyn, because, you see, I used to emulate her too. Everyone who knows me personally (instead of electronically) knows that I am a huge old movie buff. I discovered old movies when I was around 12 or 13. Don't ask me why, but out of all the old time movie queens I could have chosen, I decided Marilyn was the bees’ knees. Actually, I know why. Because just the word "Marilyn" is enough to make men drool. (Well, some men.) She (on the surface anyway) seems to be what men want: blonde, buxom, beautiful, sexy, compliant and not too bright. You know, like a walking, talking Barbie Doll. The reality is, of course, very different, on a number of levels. I now am older and wiser and realize that not all men like the Marilyns of this world. But, you know, when you are 16, the world seems very black and white.

But there's another layer to the reality beneath the myth: Marilyn was sad. By that I mean she was depressed, yes, but I also mean she was clingy, needy and terrified of being left. She was an emotional black hole. Arthur Miller (her third husband) once commented that there was not enough love in the universe to satisfy her. That kind of person (male or female) is impossible to live with in the long run.

But as a teen, I fell for the fantasy. Why? Well, it was a combination of things. The Ugly Duckling Syndrome was part of it. (I was a very homely child.) All of a sudden, as a teenager, I wasn't so homely anymore. Men stared at me. I got hit on a lot. All the things that had been drawbacks when I was a child were assets: my height, my bone structure, my coloring, my cheekbones. And there is definite power in female sexuality. Add to that a less-than-stellar childhood and you have an emotional basket-case in a pretty package. Looking back on those years now, I find myself more embarrassed by them than my whole homely childhood.

I was fortunate. I never ended up a stripper, a centerfold, a hooker, a drug addict or even a slut. I did end up making some choices involving men that have done me lasting damage. I don't look at men the same way I used to. In some ways that is a good thing: men don't have the power over me that they used to, and I'm certainly not interested in the kind of validation that a man ogling me used to give me. But the negative side of not looking at men the same way is that I don't trust easily.

I have known intuitively for years that I want to be seen as a person with dignity and worth. I want a man to fall in love with me, not my body. I knew that when I was 16. But I didn't make a connection between the way I dressed and the kind of men I attracted. It's all about market analysis, you know. Men who are only looking for a little fun will be interested in the pretty, shiny packaging. They may or may not ever care about what's underneath. To that extent, perhaps like attracts like. Perhaps they really are that shallow themselves.

But I don't want shallow. I want depth. I want a man to fall in love with my soul, the essence of who I am. And it's much easier to see someone's soul when they dress modestly. It's very hard to vocalize why. There are religious aspects, sure, but I don't want this to be about religion. Because I wish all women, whether they have a religion or not, could understand the power of dressing modestly. And I do mean power. I choose who sees this or that part of me, I choose how much I want to reveal to the general public. I say to the world at large: if you want to get to know me, you have to look deeper, you have to scratch the surface, but it’s worth it. I’m worth it. I know I have more to offer a man than my body and my face. After all, time does march on, and everyone either ages or ends up looking like Joan Rivers. I have intelligence, kindness, humor, warmth, compassion, joy, loyalty…and dignity. It took me a long time to decide that I was selling myself short by selling myself. There’s a popular idea that women who dress modestly are repressed, or oppressed, or both. People who say that have no idea what they are talking about. You want to talk about being oppressed? You have your wardrobe dictated to you by a bunch of fashion designers. Where’s the power in following the crowd like a sheep? I derive so much strength from the way I dress, and it’s clear to people who know me. I’m much more self-assured, much more able to speak my mind, much more relaxed in my own skin than I ever used to be. It’s an incredible feeling.

I just wish I could have told Anna Nicole. She deserved better. She was worth more than that. We all are.