I don’t want to be pretty.

This growing up thing. Its so messy and scary and its constantly tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that every time I think Ive learnt a bucket full in the distance there’s a well FULL of memories and experiences, trials and celebrations.

After last weeks post I had so many responses and the occasional reassurance.

“Don’t worry, you’re pretty”

Pretty. I smiled.

Along the way I became a slave to 2 syllables. 5 letters.
I’d heard it before. A word tossed from girl to girl, rarely meant. Pretty is a crippled, distorted word in a world that matches it against thigh gap existence and pearly white smiles. The world had drained out all the metrics of measuring women and replaced it with Pore size and calorie counts.

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I’m fat.

Guysssssss, I’m SO fat.

Really, I’m not. I weigh 65kgs (I may have rounded that down a little) but well, I’m average.
I’m not tiny, but I’m pretty healthy and every now and again I get whistled at by a front-toothless taxi driver, so I should be pleased.

I’m not fat, but I feel fat.

…And I don’t think its all my fault.

I remember watching Beverley Hills 90210 at primary school and Tori Spelling appeared in a beach scene. As she slow motionly jogged across the sand with her hair majestically whipping and the sun kissing her perfectly bronzed skinned a classmate spat out “wow she needs to tone up if she’s gonna run in that tiny costume”

Ok heaven knows why we were watching 90210 and more importantly why 12year old boys were shown half naked women while they should of been doing geometry. But I digress.

Tori Spelling people, Tori freaking Spelling needed to “tone up”.

If I ran on the beach would the jiggling of my NOT perfectly rounded butt make guys throw up in their mouths a little? Was I… gross? All I knew at 13 was that I was definitely no Tori Spelling, and if she needed to “tone up”? Then I needed a Unicorn and a Genie to procreate because it would take a Genie Unicorn to make me beautiful.

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Who forgot to invite Grace?

So there I sat chatting with a bevy of women I had never met while we sipped tea and nibbled on cookies like emaciated wannabe super-models. Then one piped up with a rant against abortion, and the other ladies clucked and nodded in approval. “Who does that?”, “What kind of person murders an unborn child?” floated about.

I kept darting from one face to the next, hopeful for any sign of Grace or Mercy, when I finally settled on a lady sitting across from me, her beautiful eyes rimmed with tears. Very quietly, as if whispering a secret to her chai, she answered, “You’d be surprised.” But everyone had moved on to important things by then, you know like the latest episode of Suits.

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