Interfacial Shidduchim

I'll admit, I am guilty of thinking this: 

He is gorgeous. And she is . . . well . . . as my Bobby would say, a maidel in a klaidel (a girl in a dress).

I am not proud. 

I also make those observations the other way around. Like if she is slammingly beautiful and he is a tubby, balding fellow with a receding chin. 

Those are my initial impressions, bred in me by my aesthetic-obsessed heritage.  

Belinda Luscombe addressed this in TIME magazine a few years ago. Apparently, she has had people blatantly remark on her husband's breathtaking looks, while pointing out her plainness. 

As in so many other areas of discrimination, women face double jeopardy. Guys who marry a few rungs up the looks ladder are rock stars or rich or have, I don't know, beautiful penmanship. Women who marry up, well, they're deluded. Their husbands must be gay or have really bad bacne to even look at them. And the standards are ridiculous.

It's an hysterically written article, so check it out. 

These are all challenges that scummy-yummy couples must deal with to survive. And that's before you get to the big questions: Do you raise the children as attractive or hideous? Or try to find a middle ground--you know, sorta cute? Do you celebrate beautiful-people holidays (Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras) or Oktoberfest? Very few mismatched pairs can work through these issues on their own.

Most of the world wouldn't bat an eyelash if an interracial couple strolled together down the street, but if one spouse is of Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie proportions and the other is  . . . not, somehow that seems to excite comment.

La Belle et la Bête (1946)

I've always believed that personality can conquer all. It happens so often that I meet an incredibly bad-looking woman, and after ten minutes of conversation I am absolutely smitten.  

To illustrate: I was at a kiddush, where the women were mingling together and their husbands were across the way, chatting with their buddies. There was one couple that stayed together the whole time.

The husband was incredibly handsome, tall, broad, full head of hair, and sharp shoes. His wife was incredibly bad looking, figureless, wearing everything that was wrong for her. But he remained glued to her side, even while she socialized with others, gazing into her face, inquiring of her opinion—and they were married for probably ten years. She appeared to take his constant presence by her elbow as a given. I don't see much devotion like that nowadays. 

When it comes to dating, I have said I don't care about looks. "Women fall in love with their ears" and all that jazz. There actually is something to this inner-beauty stuff. 

By that same token, I can meet absolutely breath-taking men or women and be so appalled at how they behave that I am gagging in disgust. 

I really am surprised when girls I know are demanding dates with physique and looks. Frankly, I know many svelte grooms who quickly balded or hit the cholent to make that a criteria. I know of maybe one man who is 95, still unlined and stunning. He can't walk, but he is very pleasant to look at. His wife seems happy. 

Not many women have such guarantees of the staying power of her husband's handsomeness. I can't take the chance that genetics or takeout won't fail me. With personality, there's less chance that I'm flipping a coin for the future.

By that same token, there are plenty women who were rather plain on their wedding days but became more style- and Sephora-conscious over the course of their marriage, soon outshining their comely spouses.

So while my first thoughts towards an interfacial couple is less that complimentary, I can kick those into submission pretty easily. They must have the match of souls.