I am not pretty.
Ummm... yeah. Sweet perm, right? My sincerest apologies to whoever took this picture. I will give myself a break though. This picture is from right around the time I also thought that it would be cool to jump in a way-back machine and be a singer in the 60's. My secret fantasy was that I would go to the recording studio one day and meet the Monkees and Davey Jones would fall madly in love with me and I would live out my days playing tambourine duets and wearing go-go boots and hosting Tupperware parties in the Jones mansion.
I am a Nerd, yes. But model-pretty? No.
When I pull my hair back into a wet ponytail I look like my brother. (Not in a family-resemblance kind of way, but in an "is that a dude with boobs?" kind of way.)
My eyes are kinda squinty. (Especially when I smile. Is there such a thing as eye fat?)
I am hairy. (Like I started shaving my legs in the fifth grade and once in the sixth grade I shaved my arms, using the excuse that I had just gotten a cast off my wrist and the "doctor told me to do it." I discovered that the only thing less attractive than a forest of arm hair is arm stubble.)
I am freckly and wrinkly and have graying hair and have been occasionally mistaken for pregnant when I am not.
I have a funny crooked front tooth.
My face is kinda red all the time.
I am not pretty. And I have obsessed over it. Tried everything to change that. Tried not caring about it. (Ha!) And it hasn't been until recently that I could really look at myself in any other way besides being tied to those flaws.
It looks like I laugh boldly, I was told.
And that is beautiful.