Secret to feeling sexy: It's all in the mind

By Meghan Daum

Sexiness, like love or nostalgia or sinus congestion on a pollen-free day, has a way of sneaking up on us at the most improbable moments.

How do we account, for example, for that ineluctable feeling of desirability that can come over us when we are traipsing home from the yoga studio in sweaty leggings and flip-flops that reveal more about our pedicure history than we'd like? And how, by the same token, do we explain the ease with which many of us can slip into our most reliably fabulous Balenciaga dress and Louboutin slides and still feel as sexy as a bag of carrots?

There are, of course, as many reasons for this cruel dichotomy as there are ways to feel bad about ourselves.

We can blame hormones, headaches, pimples, bloating, bad moods, bad hair, or bad lighting. We must also consider what it is we're staring into. Mirrors, as all women know, are highly politicized entities. For reasons that I am convinced are more complicated than national health care, it is entirely possible for me to look and feel reasonably hot in front of my own mirror and, less than an hour later, catch a reflection of myself that suggests some shapeless creature from Jim Henson's workshop has borrowed my outfit and copied my hairstyle, and is blithely chatting up my friends, all of whom are too polite to say anything.

There have, of course, been times when I have felt almost unbearably sexy for no apparent or justifiable reason: retrieving the newspaper in pajamas and clogs, standing over the kitchen sink washing dishes, pondering the produce selection at Whole Foods. None of these occasions led to or had anything to do with an actual sex act.

In other words, let's get one thing very clear: The phenomenon I'm discussing has to do with sexiness, not horniness. There is a sizable, if nuanced, distinction. If this were the analogy portion of the SAT, we might say that sexiness is to horniness as epicureanism is to hunger. Whereas lust tends to limit its reach to particular people or stretches of time (and, like hunger, can presumably be sated via fairly standard channels), sexiness is a state of mind. It is inextricably linked to sex as a concept but wholly separate from fornication. Despite our preoccupation with the sexiness of women, sexiness applies to both genders. Despite the youth-centric tyranny of our times, it transcends age. As much about posture and voice intonation as it is about cleavage or skirt length or the dimensions of our posteriors, feeling sexy is, at its root, about owning ourselves. It's being at home in our own skins. No wonder it is so damn elusive.

After all, pretty much anyone can have sex.

Capturing the essence of sex and customizing it to our own needs and tastes is more difficult. Hence, another analogy: Having sex is to being sexy what conceiving a child is to raising a child. The first, age and health permitting, is more or less a biological function. The second is an art: a complicated, ever-evolving process that no two people can possibly do the same way. And just as the parents who are most successful at child rearing are often those who pay the least attention to its fads (heated diaper wipes) and socially constructed paranoias (the idea that the child will suffer due to unheated diaper wipes), women who possess an innate eroticism tend to do the least amount of worrying about how they measure up to popular images of sexiness.