Here’s how it is:
I have a friend I am going to call Helen. Helen is probably my best friend: she is bright and funny and has a wonderfully wicked sense of humor that meshes nicely with mine. She’s perhaps ten years older than me, and long married, and the loving owner of a pair of dogs I’d probably like if I weren’t so phobic. She consistently stands by me in my darkest hours; I can say without irony that she is full of the milk of human kindness. Her soul is very beautiful.
Her body is not.
Really, there is no way around the truth. Even as someone who loves her I can’t honestly say she is anywhere near attractive. Her appearance is not conducive to thoughts of romance, and I sometimes notice men physically distancing themselves from her when we’re together; and I’ve overheard female friends commenting cattily on her appearance.
Now I love her no less because of this. As I said, she’s my best friend. If Helen were as lovely as her namesake is reputed to have been, she’d still be on my do-not-try-to-fuck list, because her husband is also a friend of mine, and, anyway, I value true friends more than fuckbuddies anywhistle, because the latter are easy to come by but the former are as rare as iridium. Add to that the fact that I value being polite in the 4D world, and you can see why I never, ever, ever comment on her physical appearance.
Till today.
Today Helen and I were at a cafe we sometimes meet for cake, coffee, and giggles. Our meal was free, as the manager of this cafe is fond of me and gives me free stuff; the last time Helen & I were there, I got the manager’s phone number, and this afternoon she came over to invite me to invite her to a play this weekend. Seeing this, Helen remarked on my success with women. I told her that I’m not half as studly as she thinks and not a quarter as studly as I might wish; “I spend more weekend hours on the internet than in women’s beds,” I assured her.
Laughing, Helen called me a liar. From there she segued into asking my advice. Her marriage is not entirely happy, and she sometimes speculates about straying. Last night was a speculative night; she is in a support group and has a crush on one of her fellow members, whom I will call Paris. “You’re not shy, Skald,” she said to me. “What do I do to make him notice me?”
“Don’t do anything,” I replied. “You have a husband who loves me.”
“I have a husband who never notices me,” she corrected. “Listen – if I ask you a question will you tell me the truth?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Of course, I AM an evil sumbitch, so you never know.” (I joke about conquering the Earth in the real world too.)
“Am I too ugly for Paris to ever notice me?” she asked. “No, forget that. Am I ugly, period?”
I froze. The only truthful answer was Yes. But calling someone ugly, face to face, is not something I’ve done since I was a child teasing my sisters; and as I’ve been the target of a few vicious insults in my time, I know how painful criticism can be, even – maybe even especially – if it’s truthful. So I bullshitted, not terribly successful; I tried to avoid answering the question. She asked the first question again, modifying it: “If I lost more weight, do you think Paris would like me?” Even that I found hard to imagine, but I said, “Sure. There’s a beautiful person inside you.”
We left the cafe laughing. But I could tell she was in pain, and I knew I’d done the hurting.
What should I have done?
I’ll say!