In The Eye Of The Beholder

I was reading my friend Kassi's cute post about "The Levels of Lovely." I think she picked some great people for her levels, except I'm not a big Debra Messing fan.

However, now, of course, I could launch into a discussion about how our society places too much emphasis on physical beauty, but I won't do that.

I'll tell you a story instead.

I was nine years old, and in fourth grade. During recess, sometimes I'd go hang out with the popular girls. This was the age when kids would talk about stuff like sex and cuss on the playground. I mean, really, at nine years old, we thought we were soooo grown-up because we knew all about Blueberry Hill and the word bitch. Kids are crazy today, so they probably have these same discussions in Pre-K now.

Anyway...

We were all sitting around, and one of my friends got the bright idea to rank all of us based on looks. She acted like Scarlett O'Hara and made a big ol' fuss saying she was so ugly and how we were all cuter than her. Her name was Tracey.

So Tracey ranked us...Emily was first, Amber was second (Her best friend, so she had to apologize to her), then some other girls, then this VERY NOT CUTE girl named Brenda and last, yours truly.

Of course my feelings were hurt. I wanted to pull out all their stringy blonde hair and kick them right in the ass of their Guess jeans. But I didn't. I was quiet and shy. I never told one dirty story; I just listened to them - trying to soak up their coolness. But I really wasn't cool -I was the teacher's pet and a good student. I was friends with many different groups of people. And back then, I really didn't care about being "popular." It's amazing how people are smarter as little kids than as teenagers, isn't it?

Well, I don't know what happened to most of those girls, but I know for a FACT that I was prettier than round, chubby, Mexican Brenda. I'm sorry, but I just know I was.

However, I remember wanting so desperately to be beautiful ever since that moment. Struggles with my weight, clear skin and the like have plagued me. Finally, I don't have any zits (I'll probably be completely broken out tomorrow, so I hope I'm not jinxing myself), I'm a semi-decent weight and you know what - I think I am pretty.

So there, stupid Tracey.

My husband thinks I'm beautiful. And I like who I am. I don't know how Tracey would rate me today, but I don't care anymore.

Well, at least, not as much.