Being called beautiful is nice.
It’s really not that great, though. It’s uncreative. It’s overused. It’s generic. It’s almost meaningless. She’s done (probably) nothing to achieve her face. She’s probably done more to have a perky ass than she has to have “beautiful eyes”.
So unless you’re calling her a beautiful person, inside and out, the compliment SHOULDN’T impress her much. Everyone needs a little compliment every once in a while, just as a pick me up, but telling the same person repeatedly that they are beautiful is lame.
That girl should want a better compliment from you. If you want to date someone tell them they’re funny. Tell them they’re smart. Tell them they’re interesting. Tell them you like their style, the way they wear their hair, their attitude, how nice they are, their smile.
We call girls pretty from a very young age, and it impresses upon them that being pretty is of utmost importance. Then they worry incessantly about whether or not they ARE pretty, or pretty ENOUGH.
My mother never bothered much with calling me pretty. She would call me smart, creative, athletic, hilarious and nice. Sometimes even mean, conniving, manipulative and shrewd. Every once in a while my mother would look straight at me, lovingly, and say “you are so beautiful, Vera.” And it meant so much more than my awkward teenage face.
So, thank you, mom. And to all of the girls out there wanting desperately for a guy to find you beautiful— YOU ARE SMART, YOU ARE FUNNY, YOU ARE CREATIVE, YOU ARE STYLISH. I LIKE YOUR ATTITUDE.
[Gifset: Laverne Cox speaks at the GLAAD media awards, she says,
"Each and every one of us has the capacity to be an oppressor. I want to encourage each and every one of us to interrogate how we might be an oppressor, and how we might be able to become liberators for ourselves and each other."]
When my husband [Carl Sagan] died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again.
Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful.
The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.