Only skin deep

When I was growing up, one of my main goals in life was to be beautiful.

I really couldn’t have cared less what I looked like for my really early childhood…I was too busy playing “pigs” in the mud with my brother (which is essentially a game of rolling in the mud) and building lego palaces. And I couldn’t really tell you the day I (Noticed? Decided? Figured out?) that I wasn’t beautiful, but I remember a lot of times when this was reinforced. I remember one Halloween when I went out with my sister and two brothers (and my mom) without really thinking about how I looked all too much (I was mad about having to wear the winter jacket under my dress, but you know…a pumpkin bag full of candy cures all). And it was all cool until we got to this one house where the guy decided to have his own costume contest, where the “cutest kid can come get candy first”…I was picked last. At the time, this was slightly depressing, but that was quickly solved with a mars bar. But it was just one of those moments I remember, to this day, crystal clear.

Later, I was an awkwardly built grade four student with a mushroom cut. I’m pretty sure most kids had to go through the unfortunate mushroom-cut phase…but mine was especially unfortunate since I didn’t have a bubbly personality to make up for it. There was this one older girl at my elementary school—I think she was in grade six at the time—who I thought was the coolest person ever. Her name was Nicole, and I wanted to be exactly like her. So, you can imagine how exited I was one day when she and one of her posse hollered at me and came over to the soccer field where I was playing. They started walking over and I hurried to meet them mid-field, thinking they were going to compliment me on my awesome soccer skills and tell me they needed someone with my athletic ability in their group (side note: I wasn’t remotely coordinated, nor was I capable of understanding that diversity wasn’t a key factor in the development of elementary school-age girls friend groups. This was delusional on my part)

Anyway, when they got there, the other girl spoke up. She said “Hey…we were watching you guys over there, and we were wondering…are you a boy, or a girl?”
That was…depressing.
My heart sank, but I was mostly bewildered. I mean, I remember looking down at my pink shirt and my favourite flare jeans with the pink flowers embroidered on them and wondering how they managed to get me confused with a boy. But you know how it is, Over time, every incident adds up and the face in the mirror begins to look a little more unfortunate. I remember that every time I had a shower, I’d imagine that the last little bit of water that came out of the tap had the power to make me beautiful, so I’d always wait and rub it on my face…just in case. I’d pray that God would make me beautiful, one day.

And these little childhood moment stories are nothing without the story of who I became because of them.
It’s not like the ugly duckling story…sometimes, an ugly duck is still a duck, and isn’t gonna turn out to be a swan. However, it can still grow up to be a better looking duck.

I’m getting all rattled with what my point is now, since there are people who actually read this haha, but the point is…everyone has moments that make them who they are. Things that hurt, things that build you up, and sometimes those that do both. Not everyone gets a fairytale ending where they triumph over all of their flaws—sometimes, you just get strong enough to get through them. As a kid, I had an awkward smile, a series of unfortunate haircuts, and my mom insisted on dressing all of us kids in fluorescent clothing with weird patterns. And I mean, I’ve grown up some—the braces helped, I developed some social skills, a slightly better fashion sense, and my hair grew….but I’m the same person.
Beauty isn’t the point of all this, though.
I mean, there’s been enough said about it…probably too much… and it’s destroying people. It’s beneficial, I’m sure, but it isn’t what’s going to save us. It won’t make significant others stay faithful, it won’t save your dying child, it won’t bring inner peace.
The point is that our childhood fears and insecurities sometimes get carried around with you without you even realizing it. And then some days, bam, they come back to you, and you have to decide if they matter or not. I’d say that they do, a lot of the time, because they influence our fears and insecurities in the present time. Which in turn impacts how we treat others. So, personally, due to my relived memories of childhood, I resolve the following:

I will never have a child cuteness contest
I will never ask anyone what his/her gender is.
I will never dress up any child of mine in bright paisley, nor will I give him/her a mushroom cut.

And I will never again start a blog entry without a clear idea of where I’m going with it :/

Whatever. Take from it what you will. I’m done.
peace.