wearing it well

I have never been a pretty girl. Or if I have I never knew it.

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.

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3 thoughts on “wearing it well

  1. You know … I just want to quietly raise my hands in the air and say, “Yah you!”

    It sounds like you are finding out the good things about yourself that the others have always seen. So yes …”yah you E”

    *huuuggss*

  2. Thank you! I am trying. 🙂 In a lot of ways I feel like I’m learning stuff that other people learned way younger, but I guess that’s just where I am…

  3. We ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its end; which stands related to all things; which is the mean of many extremes.
    * Ralph Waldo Emerson

    and here’s another one

    Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all.
    * W. Somerset Maugham

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