I think it might have felt wonderful for about the first 15 minutes but then become a burden. It would be hard to have a normal relationship with anyone. Their responses to you would always be colored by the effect you had on them involuntarily by the power of your looks.
In college my sister had a friend, I’ll call her Sandy, who was plainer than plain. It wasn’t so much that she was ugly, exactly, as that her face just wasn’t put together right. It had a pinched and mashed quality like when you make a face by pressing your cheeks forward. You kept hoping that it would smooth back out, but it didn’t. She was kind and sweet, but it was truly painful to look at her, and people just didn’t like to do it. They’d talk to Sandy but look elsewhere. They couldn’t help it.
Sandy graduated from nursing school and became a very good nurse. A really sick person doesn’t care what your face looks like. They feel gentle hands, they hear a comforting voice, they sense competence and caring. An older man, a wealthy patient, fell in love with Sandy for her kindness; in her own way she was beautiful to him. He married her.
Who is more enviable, the voluptuous beauty who has come to believe that she deserves to be admired, worshiped, and adored for her movie-star looks, glamor, and style, all of which will desert her one day, or homely Sandy, who never inspired a wolf whistle but is secure in being loved for her good-hearted personality?