My Brad Pitt Chronicles

My whole life, I've worked into a headwind because of my looks. It's not that I'm particularly horrible looking, but more than one woman has informed me that I'm not in "their league" (actually true, though not in the way they thought), and when I walk into a room of strangers, the energy, despite my upbeat attitude and witty repartee, sinks measurably. Ah, hell. Here comes Mr. Shloomphy.

The issue is that I'm really, really — no, really — not Brad Pitt, and just as I entered adulthood, that became the standard. I've failed the Brad Pitt standard miserably.

Which is fine! I'm not trying to look like much, or seem like much. My interest is in full-heartedly doing much. I don't mind standing back in the gloom as lowly Mr. Shloomphy while people enjoy my creations. I'd much rather be The Guy than seem like The Guy, even though this ensures that no one ever believes I'm really The Guy. Seemers always win!

It's not my ideal outcome, but I wouldn't switch. Even in a world that rewards pretense over substance, I'd rather Do than pretend to be a Doer.

There's also a moral component to beauty which always made me feel that it's not for me. I once noted that "Qualities such as kindness, intelligence, generosity, and a sense of humor are of service to others. Beauty, by contrast, serves only its possessor." I didn't say it with a bitter snort. In fact, the world probably needs beautiful people to spruce up the place and stoke whatever social energy we still have left as a species. In a world of Mr. Shloomphys, we'd all recede 100% into our screens rather than just 98%.

So perhaps beauty can be mildly generous, after all. But it's still not for me. There are specialists for that, so I amiably get out of the way and let folks preen while I do what I do, because that just seems more useful. I was raised on Richard Scarry. We each contribute what we have to contribute.

And it didn't work out so badly. I got a lot done, and a series of oddly glamorous girlfriends saw past Mr. Shloomphy's facade. I'm proud of my work, and would regret it if I'd ever shortchanged it by diverting energy to making myself seem shiny. I was famous for a moment and didn't like it. I walked away. So I'm not a victim of circumstance, or of genetic lottery. I've made choices for clear reasons, and I stand by them.

But the same world that always responded to me with a firm "Uh-uh!" — insisting that I don't look the part, make the grade, or pass the Brad Pitt test — is suddenly very upset about my looks.

I'm 63, and my genes are not optimized for graceful aging. Plus my health has been crap. Plus I was spookily aged by my ordeal with Chowhound, which I created at age 35 (looking 28) and escaped at age 43 (looking 60). And when I connect these days in-person with old friends — even ones who particularly admired and respected me — roughly half of them wince at first glance. Often, an overt sneer. They grudgingly chat with me, and I don't hear from them again. I'm more chill and droll than ever, so it's nothing I'm doing. It's how I'm looking.

So I can only conclude that they'd mostly liked me for my fantastic looks all along. Who knew??? This beautiful, beautiful man longer radiates PIZZAZZ! How the mighty have fallen!

It's the strangest strangeness of my long, estranged life. I don't get it. But I keep doing my thing. I'm a diligently purposeful ant, striving to be a generous earthworm (shitting out ever-so-slightly more nutritious earth as he goes), all with the blitheness of a reed (with no reason to object to the battering wind). Everything else is a kaleidescope, which I try to marvel at but more often just eye-roll — giving me frown lines compounding my tragic loss of visual magnificence.

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When this bizarre ride is over, and I'm handed a user survey card to rate my experience, I'll hand it back, blank, with an affable shrug. I'm not sure anyone has ever worked more industriously to understand this world, but much of it remains absolutely bewildering. This place truly defies all understanding.