Confessions of a Narcissistic Twit
Feb. 5th, 2007 11:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladymirthAfter many months of suspecting and suspicioning it, I have finally come to a decisive conclusion about this. And although I am probably going to sound completely vain and superficial, I really must post it up here and get it out of my system.
I’m pretty. Even without make-up and bad lighting.
Well, I am. I’d be an awful idiot not to know it with five mirrors in the house.
Well, I know I shouldn’t be feeling so pathetically delighted about it, seeing as beauty is superficial, ephemeral and hardly a personal achievement. And I’m sure I’ll be a square-jawed, pug nosed, sallow faced sad old dame on the other side of thirty. But you see, I haven’t really been anything worth a second glance since the age of seven. I was the class clown at best and a klutzy nerd at worst. Not that I really suffered as much as I would have, since my school wasn’t a co-ed and the good thing about being surrounded by girls who were forced into the same shapeless white pleated dress and pigtails as me, is that popularity contests aren’t centered on looks and fashion statements. In other words, your social status does not revolve around boys. They are usually quite an alien race to us victims of segregated education, at least until a year after we leave secondary school.
But I really can’t say I have very many happy memories of school. I think this has more to do with the fact that I was always drowning in self-esteem issues half the time and wandering around with my head in the clouds, banging off the walls in the other half, rather than any fault of the school itself. I wasn’t a popular kid, but I was always a magnet for the sporty, popular, pretty kids. I have no idea why, but people seem to view me as a cute little hapless stray puppy and constantly adopt and mother me to death. I suppose Fate thought she was doing me a favour since otherwise I would probably have had as much chance of survival as a Pekingese pooch abandoned to the wolves, but it really didn’t do anything for my self-esteem issues. I had to take drastic measures to break myself out of that mould and prove to people that I might seem like a puppy but irritate me enough and I can bite as well as the next bitch.
So there I was, for all my years in high school. A rotund person with these really thick, godawful Granny Go-go glasses in stringy pigtails and a middle parting that made me look like I’d had a bad encounter with a flat iron and a spiteful nanny in my infancy. I had a complex all to itself about my nose, which was quite snub, and hadn’t quite grown into my face yet, putting the final cherry topping on my clown image. My belt was always falling above my tummy, like a pre-schooler, and don’t get me started on my eyebrows. If Brooke Shields had a kid by Groucho Marx, it would’ve been me. That’s a direct quote from Princess Diaries, by the way. Seriously though, Anne Hathaway before the makeover had nothing on me.
I was about as athletic as a plum pudding. Watching me sprinting down the corridor would have given Rowan Atkinson a few pointers, and I laboured under the sad delusion I could dance. Actually, I danced then the same way I do now, only a few dress sizes too large and a few years too early. It’s one thing to pull off an Ashanti-style shimmy when you’re nineteen and a size six with an actual waist, but quite another thing to attempt it when you’re fourteen years old and resemble a beach ball in glasses with as much co-ordination as a goat on stilts.
The only thing I was spared, according to the Handbook Profile of The Stereotypical High School Nerd, were braces, which was not altogether a small mercy. I suppose even Fate has a sense of what the teenage human spirit will endure before it completely buckles under the weight.
Under the circumstances, being surrounded by tall, graceful, goddess-like creatures wielding netballs would have been rather cruel, if I hadn’t really loved my friends. It’s not as if they ever made fun of me, in any way. A bit condescending at times, but I could bear that. Still, when I did stop to think about it, being the oddball among the beauties did always grate on my nerves. I pretended I didn’t mind, and I really did admire how pretty my friends were most of the time, without jealousy. Much. Most of the time. Honest.
But you know, I gave up the notion I’d ever have anything to contribute to the looks department. And it rankled. I mean, as a wise man once said, 'people say things like “beauty is only skin deep”, as though a man ever fell for a pair of attractive kidneys'.
And then, of course, I got rid of the baby fat, left school, binned the frumpy uniforms. I got myself waxed, threaded, layered, moussed and tossed the glasses. I traveled alone, and broke the spiritual umbilical cord for the first time, and brought back home a sense of achievement and confidence. I discovered I loved dancing and looked good in flared skirts. And I realized that I was really through with taking shit from people, friend or not.
So I guess you could say I’ve been quite comfortable in my own skin for the past few months. And this latest epiphany is only adding to the feeling. Life is so good when you’re not yet twenty, you like the girl in the mirror and take a size six in dresses. Even if it is the new fourteen. (Note: Devil Wears Prada)
Oh, I know I sound horribly, horribly vain and a better candidate for a snooty, superficial fashion editor rather than a serious aspiring journalist concerned about real-world issues.
But you know what? I don’t care.
Yipee!
I’m pretty. Even without make-up and bad lighting.
Well, I am. I’d be an awful idiot not to know it with five mirrors in the house.
Well, I know I shouldn’t be feeling so pathetically delighted about it, seeing as beauty is superficial, ephemeral and hardly a personal achievement. And I’m sure I’ll be a square-jawed, pug nosed, sallow faced sad old dame on the other side of thirty. But you see, I haven’t really been anything worth a second glance since the age of seven. I was the class clown at best and a klutzy nerd at worst. Not that I really suffered as much as I would have, since my school wasn’t a co-ed and the good thing about being surrounded by girls who were forced into the same shapeless white pleated dress and pigtails as me, is that popularity contests aren’t centered on looks and fashion statements. In other words, your social status does not revolve around boys. They are usually quite an alien race to us victims of segregated education, at least until a year after we leave secondary school.
But I really can’t say I have very many happy memories of school. I think this has more to do with the fact that I was always drowning in self-esteem issues half the time and wandering around with my head in the clouds, banging off the walls in the other half, rather than any fault of the school itself. I wasn’t a popular kid, but I was always a magnet for the sporty, popular, pretty kids. I have no idea why, but people seem to view me as a cute little hapless stray puppy and constantly adopt and mother me to death. I suppose Fate thought she was doing me a favour since otherwise I would probably have had as much chance of survival as a Pekingese pooch abandoned to the wolves, but it really didn’t do anything for my self-esteem issues. I had to take drastic measures to break myself out of that mould and prove to people that I might seem like a puppy but irritate me enough and I can bite as well as the next bitch.
So there I was, for all my years in high school. A rotund person with these really thick, godawful Granny Go-go glasses in stringy pigtails and a middle parting that made me look like I’d had a bad encounter with a flat iron and a spiteful nanny in my infancy. I had a complex all to itself about my nose, which was quite snub, and hadn’t quite grown into my face yet, putting the final cherry topping on my clown image. My belt was always falling above my tummy, like a pre-schooler, and don’t get me started on my eyebrows. If Brooke Shields had a kid by Groucho Marx, it would’ve been me. That’s a direct quote from Princess Diaries, by the way. Seriously though, Anne Hathaway before the makeover had nothing on me.
I was about as athletic as a plum pudding. Watching me sprinting down the corridor would have given Rowan Atkinson a few pointers, and I laboured under the sad delusion I could dance. Actually, I danced then the same way I do now, only a few dress sizes too large and a few years too early. It’s one thing to pull off an Ashanti-style shimmy when you’re nineteen and a size six with an actual waist, but quite another thing to attempt it when you’re fourteen years old and resemble a beach ball in glasses with as much co-ordination as a goat on stilts.
The only thing I was spared, according to the Handbook Profile of The Stereotypical High School Nerd, were braces, which was not altogether a small mercy. I suppose even Fate has a sense of what the teenage human spirit will endure before it completely buckles under the weight.
Under the circumstances, being surrounded by tall, graceful, goddess-like creatures wielding netballs would have been rather cruel, if I hadn’t really loved my friends. It’s not as if they ever made fun of me, in any way. A bit condescending at times, but I could bear that. Still, when I did stop to think about it, being the oddball among the beauties did always grate on my nerves. I pretended I didn’t mind, and I really did admire how pretty my friends were most of the time, without jealousy. Much. Most of the time. Honest.
But you know, I gave up the notion I’d ever have anything to contribute to the looks department. And it rankled. I mean, as a wise man once said, 'people say things like “beauty is only skin deep”, as though a man ever fell for a pair of attractive kidneys'.
And then, of course, I got rid of the baby fat, left school, binned the frumpy uniforms. I got myself waxed, threaded, layered, moussed and tossed the glasses. I traveled alone, and broke the spiritual umbilical cord for the first time, and brought back home a sense of achievement and confidence. I discovered I loved dancing and looked good in flared skirts. And I realized that I was really through with taking shit from people, friend or not.
So I guess you could say I’ve been quite comfortable in my own skin for the past few months. And this latest epiphany is only adding to the feeling. Life is so good when you’re not yet twenty, you like the girl in the mirror and take a size six in dresses. Even if it is the new fourteen. (Note: Devil Wears Prada)
Oh, I know I sound horribly, horribly vain and a better candidate for a snooty, superficial fashion editor rather than a serious aspiring journalist concerned about real-world issues.
But you know what? I don’t care.
Yipee!
Hasini goes to West Palm Beach.
The gang at the beach. From left: moi (in the purple poncho), Roshan, Manilka, Kalana and Kaushalya.
It was the final day of the conference and we dolled ourselves up in national dress for a song. The boys are wearing sarongs, while the women are wearing osarees, which are like sarees only with the pleats gathered in front. From left: Kalana (in the dark blue shirt), Roshan, Kaushalya, Mrs. Shyamalie, Me and Manilka. Honestly can't remember who the lady in the white t-shirt is.
That's us with Kelly, who was a former Miss USA for United Nations. I'm the gal in the dark blue osaree. If only we weren't wearing those godawful nametags...
That's me with Yulia, at the Fedex luncheon. I wish I'd hought to stay in touch...
And that's me. Eleven thirty in the night and completely bushed.
Oh, and here's me:
Zat's all for today folks! The rest will eventually be revealed.
And now you know I really don't look anything like Juhi, don't you my poor Paro?
The gang at the beach. From left: moi (in the purple poncho), Roshan, Manilka, Kalana and Kaushalya.
It was the final day of the conference and we dolled ourselves up in national dress for a song. The boys are wearing sarongs, while the women are wearing osarees, which are like sarees only with the pleats gathered in front. From left: Kalana (in the dark blue shirt), Roshan, Kaushalya, Mrs. Shyamalie, Me and Manilka. Honestly can't remember who the lady in the white t-shirt is.
That's us with Kelly, who was a former Miss USA for United Nations. I'm the gal in the dark blue osaree. If only we weren't wearing those godawful nametags...
That's me with Yulia, at the Fedex luncheon. I wish I'd hought to stay in touch...
And that's me. Eleven thirty in the night and completely bushed.
Oh, and here's me:
Zat's all for today folks! The rest will eventually be revealed.
And now you know I really don't look anything like Juhi, don't you my poor Paro?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-05 08:41 pm (UTC)See ya,
Anna.