As a little girl, as a young mother, as a grown woman-never she was really pretty. Actually it is a pity that one sees only towards the end of his life the view itself was as hypercritical, says BRIGITTE author Ursula Lebert.
You want to be nice on the wedding photo. At least on this day. A white veil, a wedding dress size 36, chic shoes and a bouquet of lily of the Valley in the arm. And a husband on the side. It must be anyway, so that later the grandchildren say: Grandma-you did that? And every viewer understands why the slightly embarrassed-looking groom got married this cute girl.
My wedding picture fails with there. There were no veil and no waisted white dream of silk, because I was pregnant in the sixth month. I had a white unobtrusive hat on and rings under the eyes. My husband was wearing a black suit, three buttons buttoned, which was then unfashionable, but he came from the rental house, in which we borrowed Carnival clothes, too. He had also rings under the eyes, because he had celebrated the night before. We grin both pretty stupid in the lens.
It was 1955, after all, our marriage has been, until the death of retired us.
Was I more beautiful than young mother? Somehow also recorded in the family photos is not. At that time, a fellow sculptor has cut my hair, it was his hobby. You can see it. Today, I would say I was slim. At the time of the Polaroid prints, I found myself fat. Dress size 42, impossible. On an image, I stand at the edge of a sand box and look as well as a woman just looks like when she watched her little son at the edge of a sand box. For two hours.
When was I ever nice? When I was born, my parents had no choice: they found me cute, even though I had no hair on his head. I was their first child. Later, with the candle, white dress and a wanted on my thin plaits – we just forget about it. My grandmother had a saying on it: “beautiful winding desert street children, beautiful people ‘.” Also not always true.
I remember the feeling when entering a Ballroom (in my youth there was still balls, also Hausbälle) immediately to meet the first girl that was undoubtedly handsome. I had given me such trouble to clean me out. And now, I would urgently to needed someone, love looked me in the eyes. But the not always existed. Sometimes. Just then I had a pimple on his nose.
Today, girls like me be anorexic with grief. I can understand that. It was not at that time only still on the trend. You had but also certain ideal phenomena in the head. So I want to look. The word cellulite did not exist yet, the small dents in the thighs already. Never, ever, I put on a bikini. In a bathing suit, I thought the hands backwards across the Po. My God, how beautiful was the Bardot.
Now, as the old woman, I see the photos in the album with mildness. I wasn’t ugly actually. Some even quite pretty. Why did it say no one? To highlight the exterior was considered in my generation EZW, vain, conceited. In particular my mother saw it so. When even a neighbor remarked, I, her daughter, beautiful eyes, my mother said only: “but to short lashes.” I’ll never forget that.
Can be Yes, that today too much cult has the appearance of being driven. The feminists of the 1960s were probably mainly purple and knit dresses, and the bag fashion was invented. Young girls today are perhaps inherently more confident and thus also stylish. They attract what they want, wear looking Eyeshadows and minis and Groovy hairstyles-not all, but many. I admire a girlie with thick thighs, which is available with tight-fitting Bermuda in the ice cream parlor. There you go, there are men who like thick thighs. The ex-President of the United States Bill Clinton liked and like obviously thick legs in women.
It is no longer good sound to be ugly or unimpressive-such as in traditional Japan, where you had to respond to the praise “You have a beautiful nose”: “Oh, no, I have the ugliest nose of the world.” Or fought off on “What a pretty baby”: “Heaven has given unfortunately no beauty him.”
I am an old woman now, and look at my old face of full indulgence. I’m a bit angry already that I am now happier with me than in the past. My mother would say: “But folds you have many.” My mother died forty years ago. Has she secretly sometimes thought that their daughter looks quite nice?
How important is beauty to you? Share out in the dossier talk.
Text: Ursula Lebert photos: Ulrike Frömel/clip art BRIGITTE issue 12/2007
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