My whole life, I have defined myself by being something other than pretty. I have always had stunningly beautiful friends, and I considered it my role to bring something else to the table, to work with what I had rather than try to become something I was not. I would call myself the the funny friend or the charming one, mostly. I considered myself something of a mascot; everybody loves the mascot, but nobody takes them home. I still wanted to be considered beautiful, but I made peace with myself and got to a point where I felt pretty happy with charming. I didn’t think I had it in me to be a heartbreaker anyway.
Since I’ve been single and gained a shred of confidence, I’ve been treated like a pretty girl. A funny, charming, pretty girl. This is the first time, at least that I’ve been aware of, and it’s a very strange experience. My mother insists it was always this way, but my memory is very different. I’ve always maintained romantic connections, but they were friends. I was rarely with someone, and I always saw myself as the rebuffed pursuer, not an object of anybody’s affection.
That’s changed; I don’t know when or how. A lot has changed. So much of what I thought was true of myself just plain isn’t. I’m still figuring out what to do with it all.