I realize that looking at pictures of girls who used to make me feel like dying because of comparative jealousy do not necessarily make me feel like dying anymore. I mean, it is hard to believe that some of the girls that I see actually exist, they are too perfect. I know they must have their ugly days but do they struggle with the uphill battle of cystic acne and buttchin? The knowledge that I am not pretty enough to kick it is a little off-putting. But, it does not destroy me.
It used to destroy me. I’m not sure why it doesn’t anymore. Maybe because sometimes I play this little game with myself, which is probably very wrong now that I’m writing it out, but I do this thing where I think well yeah, they may be too pretty for me to kick it with them and I would definitely feel like a bullfrog if I took a picture with them, but they’re probably stupid. That’s what gives me peace. Great.
But I played that mental gymnastics for a long time and it never worked, so I think the other reason that I don’t care as much is because I just don’t care as much. Like, maybe I’m becoming more confident!? Not to say, that I’m like, confident, because… Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. But things aren’t killing me anymore.
Let me just say that I used to sit on the computer for hours searching through pictures of girls with prettier features than me and would use them to mutilate my own soul. And I don’t do that anymore. I think my standards of what is important have changed. And that is a miracle, my friends. As much as I would probably enjoy basking in the light of a beautiful woman with long perfect hair and flawless skin and call her my friend, typically this doesn’t happen.
More realistically, my best friends are as follows: the man who lives with me. Has a big poofy afro and ADHD. Loves anime. My cat. A trans man. A dude who can always be caught wearing the same Auto Zone t-shirt. A girl on her fourth hip surgery who has gained weight consequently. A quiet girl who takes trips to Mackinaw every year. My mom. My sister. A girl covered in tatoos but is conflicted religiously on whether to cover them all up. A big, beautiful redhead.
In addition, a curly-haired girl who has been basically bedridden for the last four years due to an unknown disease. A recent divorce. A tall, tall, tall, dorky and awesome book illustrator. My pastor, his wife, and my mentor, all over 50. A lot of my friends are over 50. My ex-boyfriend’s political realist mom is probably one of my best friends.
So, yeah. Not exactly the most instagrammable bunch. But you know? As I write it down I realize how lucky I am. Really. I feel like a mangled mess walking through life with a bunch of weirdos. They keep me together, keep me grounded. And I’d be proud to grace the pages of instagram with our presence. We might not be as hot, but we certainly have a story to tell through our jacked up bodies and brains.