Why You're Considered Attractive

"If you are considered attractive in middle age, it simply means that you look young. Conversely, if you are considered attractive in middle school, it simply means that you look old. You are a hundred years old and people still tell you how attractive you are? It's genuinely heartwarming and, quite frankly, touching that you don't realize you're being condescended to."

"Aren't you an attractive dog! Every day of your life, people just come up to you and inform you of your beauty, right to your face. Isn't that right? Who's the pretty doggy? Yes, you are! Oh, you like getting scratched behind your ears, don't you? If you are portraying the wacky sidekick in a Hollywood movie but are still viewed as attractive, then you have badly misunderstood your job description. Report to wardrobe immediately to get your eccentric haircut and "Who Farted?" T-shirt."

"Although you qualify as an attractive insect, you, Ms. Ladybug, are still likely to get squished. But take solace in the fact that, unlike your less comely bug brethren, the person doing the squishing will undoubtedly feel some amount of guilt and, perhaps, mutter an apology as they are murdering you. Are you an attractive great-grandfather? Then you are Mick Jagger. Congratulations on that fact alone."

Perceived attractiveness often signals age-related cues, such as looking young when labeled attractive in middle age and looking old when labeled attractive in middle school. High-school attractiveness brings social attention that may not translate into adult popularity. Praise of attractiveness in centenarians can be condescending rather than genuinely admiring. Constant compliments toward pets function as patronizing, tactile interaction. Hollywood sidekicks expected to be comic should not also be marketed as conventionally attractive, unless intentionally subverting the role. Attractive insects may be squished with a hint of guilt from the killer. Experiencing attractiveness in vulnerable private moments indicates invasion by a voyeur.

Read at The New Yorker