THE LEDA MONOLOGUE
Julia Holleman
LEDA:
I have a relationship with myself in the mirror.
An active relationship.
An honest relationship.
A relationship where I can say hi, and my reflection can say hi back
And we know neither of us is a Helen.
Or a Penelope.
Not Medusa.
No.
I have compared, you know.
The length of my legs. The shapeliness of my calves. The space between my eyes. The weight of the fat on my waist. The ratio of my knees to my elbows. If my lips are half the length of my big toe. If the circumference of each of my breasts is thirty-seven times that of my bellybutton.
And the answer is no. No, they’re not. And I’m content with that.
I was content with that.
But now.
And now, they say.
They say:
“Oh, she must be so beautiful.”
So beautiful, to have the privilege, almost
You know?
So beautiful.
The privilege.
The pretty woman’s burden.
To be raped.
By a God, no less. By Zeus, no less.
Well, a swan. But everyone assures me—it must have been Zeus. After all, what normal swan would—well, you know. They’re dangerous birds. But for entirely different reasons.
So Zeus. Beauty. I now must be beautiful.
But I know this.
I know I am not. Not beautiful. Not pretty. In fact, the word “plain” has been used to describe me on numerous
Numerous
Occasions.
Plain.
But the news has spread of my . . . compliment.
And now I am scared. Scared that if I show my face, they won’t believe me. They will say I was lying. That Zeus would never (never) rape someone who looks like me.
They would say—maybe it was actually a swan. An aberrant swan. A swan that doesn’t know what human beauty is. After all, why not? The world’s a strange place.
The truth is, of course, none of them—not Europe or Io, not Aegina or Antiope, not Leto or Semele—none were beautiful. They had wandered off by themselves, or were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, or well—were simply gullible.
I mean—if a cow approaches you and tries to separate you from your handmaidens—well, you know better. No matter how attractive the cow. You know better.
You ask anyone about it now, of course. Ask anyone—all these women were beautiful beyond compare. Their measurements were impeccable, immeasurable, almost.
So I’m staying inside. When someone asks, I just send out false measurements. Whatever is perfect. They ask, I answer. My thighs are twice the diameter of my ankles; my fingernails are 100 times the width of my eyelashes, my eyebrows are exactly 4.7 centimeters apart and 1.4 centimeters tall. I’m a 36-24-36. 4-6-2-8. 21-43-32. .3 – 2.6 – .7 . The right measurements to give the wrong impression. The right impression. The myth. I am beautiful.