A playwright friend wrote an interesting post on his blog where he wondered what it must be like to be "the most beautiful woman in the room," both for a play he is writing and for his own general knowledge. He asked his gorgeous readers for their feedback. I didn't comment because only once have I been the most beautiful woman in the room and then it wasn't so much a room as an outdoor dance floor, and a certain number of ice cold Polares had been imbibed, so being the most beautiful woman in the room may have been more feeling than fact.

But I have often thought about what it must be like to be so achingly beautiful that people can't take their eyes off of you or, better yet, are forced to avert their eyes to avoid staring. How would my life be different if I was 5 inches taller, 20 pounds lighter, and morphed from pear to hourglass?

Whenever I think about this (and it is frightening how often this pops into my mind), the first consequence I think of is that shopping would be way more fun. It would be great to look at a display mannequin and think "that is a killer outfit" instead of the qualified "that is a killer outfit, but it would look really weird on me." And then I think of how it would help me professionally, to be able to walk into a room, flash a smile, and get whatever I wanted. Of course, the smile may be something I have developed—much like funny guy—in order to compensate for my physical imperfections.

But then—and perhaps this is just a defense mechanism to protect my fragile female ego—I start imagining the unwanted attention from a whole array of unsavory characters, even when I just want to go to the deli to by a coke. Even when I just want to exist in my own little world like all average people have the right to do.

Of course, my vision is derived from the experience of a young woman who is beautiful on her good days and is rewarded for this by being followed by hissing men (often of the crusty or sketchy variety) or passing through a gauntlet loiterers who say the sweetest things under their breath so that only you can hear them, like "hey, wanna get with me, shorty" or the simple and elegant "nice ass." Maybe if I were "the most beautiful woman in the room" and it were gorgeous painters or poets or doctors who were giving me this attention I would be less hostile—but then again these types would probably be too shy to approach me.

The beauty conundrum is ever present in my thoughts, wavering between a desperate desire to be "the most beautiful woman in the room" (maybe just for a one-day test to see how it is...) and the gratefulness to be rather average in my physical appearance so that my other above-average (or so I like to think) qualities can shine on through…when I want them to.