Growth

I had another night of zero sleep, so I made my way to the basement and started going through some boxes from our old house that Mom lived in before I got married. Inside a box was a small photo album wrapped in a Wal-mart bag. I opened it and was taken right back to Middle school. I was back in the eighth grade.

There it was-

A picture of me standing in a strapless black dress, my hair all done in classic nineties style-teased and curled. Big. My make-up was done just right by my cousin who I thought was the prettiest girl in the world. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t really see myself.

Myself at that time had wild naturally curly hair that I would brush often to try and straighten. It would be wavy on the sides and wild in the back. It was uncontrollably curly in humid or rainy weather. I couldn’t ever do anything with it so I always looked a little like I was just electrocuted. I knew absolutely nothing about fashion. I had a couple of friends but I was not at all social outside of that group of girls. I didn’t really see anything exceptional or special about me. I was just kind of there. I was basic, at best.

The girls I went to school with, the “in” crowd were beautiful. I used to be so envious of them. They would have their nails done just right at the local salon, had perfect hair that never moved or got messed up, and they wore make-up that made them look like a model. They looked like real life Barbies. And I was always in the corner. Always quiet. Always…Basic.

But there I was, standing in a black dress, with my arm on my escort waiting to walk into the gym one Friday night in front of my peers. I don’t even remember what this event was called or why exactly I was a part of it. But I know I felt like I had something to prove. What that was, I have no idea.

Time is healing. My “basic” is back and I find that my messy bun suits me far more than a hairstyle that needed a bottle of hair spray a day to hold. My make-up is barely worn and truth be told it probably is never done right. I remember that night. I remember wanting to feel and be anyone else. It’s kind of a comfort to know now that that fourteen year old kid then, turned out to be a pretty cool adult. It’s odd how something that was so important to me then is such a teeny memory to me now. But when it does cross my mind, I can giggle and say “You silly girl,” under my breath. I think that’s called growth.