Further to SaoT’s “not a debate” thread (which I have no issue with) and referring in particular to the last sentence of Robert Edwards’ comment:
The sad truth is that some birds are, as you say, ‘easier on the eye’ than others, so good luck to them; it must be q. rough being a munter, but those are the breaks, I’m afraid…
I’m afraid I can’t let Robert’s gauntlet lie unmolested.
You see, I’m no oil painting. Neither are most of the women in my family. We are all Plain Janes and therefore, if you accept Robert’s point of view, munters. We do, however, possess brains, personality and, in the main, senses of humour. We are also, by and large, with a slight emphasis on the large in my case, successful. I don’t feel, or have ever felt, hard done by in the looks department. Despite the lack of visually stunning facial attributes I still managed to bag a successful man. A design engineer in fact. We have a comfortable, if modest life together, we live in a nice area and after almost thirty years of marriage he still treats me like the sun shines out of my every orifice. The lack of any kind of easy on the eye beauty ideal has never held me back so no, it isn’t q. rough being a munter.
I was a beautiful baby and have the pics to prove it. However, I didn’t live up to the early promise. Never gave it a second thought because you see, I could beat the pants off the pretty, giggly girly girls when it came to smarts. Boys, make-up and fashion have never featured on my conversational radar because I would much sooner watch paint dry. Like the bulk of the female population I don’t envy good looks and I’m of the opinion that if you’ve got it then why not flaunt it. And, as Robert says, good luck to those who do. If they want to decorate some bloke’s arm or use their physical attributes to sell goods or catch a well to do hubby then go for it and go for it hard because there is a shelf life to beauty unless you want to go the way of the scalpel. Smarts last a hell of a lot longer.
I’ve seen pretty girls bed hop like sex crazed frogs in the hope of catching the man of their dreams. It never seemed to quite work out for them and all they got was a rep for being easy; popular but not wifely material. I never had to do that to catch a bloke but it isn’t because I’m a munter and no one ever asked me. I wouldn’t lower myself. In fact I feel sorry for the lasses who believe they have to flit from bloke to bloke in order to work their way up the social ladder. I got there through sheer hard graft and using my noggin. My significant other half came along later. However it was my well fitted uniform skirt over suspenders (it was bloody hot in the summer of 1976) that initially snagged him. Right after I nicked him for speeding…
I might be a munter in the eyes of some but I’m not some hairy-lipped, envious as hell, face that sucked a thousand lemons femiloon. I scorn the harridans who dictate how a gorgeous lass should behave. How very dare they vilify any woman with the guts to strut her stuff. They should give us all a break, STFU and go shave their armpits.
Having said that I have a confession to make.
If some fairy godmother popped up and offered to make me easy on the eye as well a keep my intelligence I’d jump at it. Who wouldn’t want the best of both worlds? However, if the same FG offered beauty at the expense of 25% of my IQ I’d tell her where to stick her wand. You see I prize intelligence more than looks. As for todays female role models – gawd help us! I’ll never be inspired by or aspire to be a Cheryl Cole, a Jordan or a WAG. The very idea of living a life like that leaves me cold. I’d sooner put out my eyes than read about them or watch them. They have no interest for me. I’m far more interested in politics, science, shooting clay and off-roading.
Being a munter is no bar to ambition. All you need to do is look at Charlie Jug-ears’ squeeze. She might look rough but that didn’t stop her hooking the heir to the throne.
Being plain ordinary isn’t a burden. Lacking the ability to turn heads never killed me nor turned me into an envious bitch. My existence isn’t rough by any stretch of the imagination. Munter is just a name. I shall wear it with pride because I had to fight for what I have. It didn’t get offered to me because I have perky boobs and a face that the Royal Navy could use to supplement their depleted fleet. If individuals need to pigeonhole me as a munter because nature didn’t grace me with a certain type of physiology then it says more about them than about me. I inhabit the middle ground, a place between stunning and munter. And let me tell you, it’s bloody crowded.