I often look at them, try to study them. Their perfect hair, manicures and dress. These girls, they’re not much older than me, not at all. And yet they’re so much far ahead it seems. They’re bright. They’re going places. They’ve got good jobs, steady relationships, wonderful academics, or blogs with over five-hundred followers. Their photography is amazing, as is their fashion sense and wording. They’ve got the whole world at the tip of their fingers, even their “bad days” are glamorous. They don’t smile too big or laugh too loud, their hair is just the right touch of messy. always.
And I? I’m just … here.
Most days I wear a faded soccer Brazil shirt two sizes too big and multi-colored socks. My hair’s up in a bun with stray curls falling every which way they please. I read books that are too big and too full of fluff; I grow out my hair, memorize the phases of the moon and a sailor’s song just because it’s on my bucket-list. I still make lists. Handwritten ones. I obsess. I let people scare me. I get frustrated. I’m not always secure or as confident as I wish I were. More than half the strange and complex recipes I pick and try out end up in flops. I have bad hair days. I often don’t know what to wear. I lose my temper. I get impressed easily and don’t cry in public. I fail road tests and loose things. I have an internship not a job, my relationships are shaky at best, my academics all I have, and fifty blog followers still a dream. One time I had someone look at a picture of friends with me, point me out of the photo, laugh and say, “Look at her face, at the way she’s smiling, she’s just.. too happy!” Apparently it’s wrong. To smile big. There’s such a thing as “too happy.” I don’t know what’s the “just right” amount of happy.
But recently I’ve made a realization. One I think is important. One that I’ve made before, but have forgotten. One I occasionally have to re-remember. I’ve realized that .. it just doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t really matter what they do, or how they live. It really matters what I do and how I live. And I’ve realized that all I really ever want to be, is me. No comparisons, just simply this. Me. I want to continue wearing large t’s and colorful socks, to do seemingly unimportant things while I still can, to love too much, to be too happy, to read silly books, to fail and try again, to keep on going and glue back the pieces of me. Because all of these broken and random little things, they make up Me. And you know what?
No, I don’t mean that in a haughty sense. I think all girls are beautiful. Somehow, some way. In different ways possibly. Inside or out, or preferably both. But deep inside, there’s always a little bit of beauty, somewhere. In her eyes, in her words, in her acts. Every girl is beautiful. So don’t ever tell a girl she’s not. Because she’ll believe you. And she doesn’t deserve that. No one does.