Double Reed

Recently, I saw something funny at the library. It was bound to happen. I’m always at the library. I’m like a kid in a candy store there. But even while I’m reading, I’ll look around, noting the various people sitting nearby. So of course I discovered the attractive woman propped in a chair at the next table over. She sported a top of the line ponytail. And a bit of makeup, although she didn’t need it. Anyone could see she was really pretty.

She wore a fluffy cream colored sweater making her look like a pastry fresh out of the oven. The only thing any reasonable man would want to do would be to hug her tightly, carry her away to his hut, and guard her with his life. The thought did cross my mind.

She had no book in front of her. She was just sitting there looking fabulous. After a minute, I guessed she was waiting for somebody. I read a few more pages in my book. Then I snuck another look at her. I’m only human. She seemed to enjoy the gazes aimed at her by the men seated nearby. After a while it was hard for anybody to concentrate. I thought about whipping out my phone and calling the cops on her. But what good would that do? She’d be back on the streets tomorrow.

Then a novel thing happened. Some plain Jane took a seat across from her. This mediocre girl wore a sweater too. But it was mucous green and seemed to have been rescued from a box in her grandmother’s cobwebbed attic. Her hair was frazzled like a preschool teacher’s at the end of a long day. She had a subdued demeanor. As if she’d been put upon often and all she wanted to do now was read a fantasy novel.

The good looking woman aimed a cold stare at her. And the boring girl kept her nose in her book to avoid trouble. In the pretty girl’s stare were all manner of assumptions. Seemingly about her superiority and the mediocre girl’s relative inferiority. The plain girl appeared to shrink before my very eyes from the debilitating effects of low self esteem. Her sweater seemed too big for her now. And more worn out than was initially apparent.

Flushed with shame, the girl was immobilized. She resigned herself to the spotlight and endured the harsh critique of her appearance. The good looking woman was quite satisfied. She grew swollen with overconfidence. But that passionate hubris disfigured her face and made her expression sort of . . .ugly.

Some transformation. It was like a supermodel wetting herself at a photo shoot. Her face said it all. The good looking woman was simply, let’s say, not intellectually profound. For me, it was like finding a counterfeit bill in my wallet. I didn’t have to see anymore. Disappointed, I returned my attention to my book. Other men did the same. Now and then we still snuck a peek at the “good looking” woman. But only to see how much further she would devolve. Realizing her slip up, her eyes anxiously darted from one man’s face to the next, finding no home in any of them. Now she literally huffed and puffed and fidgeted unhappily before our indifference.

The “good looking” woman and the plain one were each like a piece of cane in a double reed wind instrument. As providence blew into them, they vibrated against each other. And the plain girl represented a welcomed contrast; unpremeditated and increasingly thought provoking. Because most men appreciate truth, her quiet song reached us with clarity. Her graciousness saved the day.

She didn’t even realize how the tables had turned. She was still buried in her book. Then a magnetic character took a seat next to her. He asked her what she was reading. She looked at him quizzically. She showed a nervous grin. She said softly, “Oh, it’s an Anne Rice novel.”

The man’s face brightened like the sun. He said, “That’s crazy. I love Ann Rice.” She blushed. She didn’t have to say much afterwards. The man engaged her in a comical discussion about immortality. Apparently, this was something she had put a lot of thought into. I grew a bit jealous of the charming dude. And the “good looking” woman’s face turned gnarly with envy and frustration. The contortions of her facial muscles and her tragic expressions made me think she could have had a career in theatre. Five minutes later she left the library. Looking and likely feeling unpretty.

But the plain girl had new life breathed into her. Her eyebrows were constantly arched in surprise at the magnetic dude’s observations. This made her face look thoughtful and relaxed, and her smile was effortless and enduring. She was pretty. Then I heard her remark, “I thought I was the only one who thought of it that way.” And Magneto told her, “No, you’re not alone. Not at all.”

Before I left an hour and a half later, the two were still feeding off each other. They looked like a match made in heaven. As I journeyed home, I considered how the outward appearance of things is often deceiving. And I vowed to never again assume a beautiful woman is actually a beautiful woman. Or that some plain Jane couldn’t be a man’s dream come true.

So, for anyone who thinks himself or herself a misfit with no hope for companionship, think again. There’s plenty of people who can properly measure human value. Just be sure you don’t make the mistake of overlooking them.

If for some reason, you’re not feeling valuable or understood, you can always talk to someone by calling the Mental Health Hotline at 866-903-3787. Or call 988.