“I was so ugly in high school,” I slyly confess as I lean across the table, ensuring that my boobs are positioned at the exact right angle. At almost a conditioned response, the guy sitting across from me said, “well you certainly aren’t now.”
“Confessing” that you were ugly in high school might as well be straight out of the Barney Stinson playbook. Not only does it make you relatable, but it infers that you aren’t full of yourself, and probably developed a great sense of humor, personality, or both. More importantly, it gives everyone the opportunity to marvel at how much you’ve improved. Of course, this only works if you have, actually, improved. If anyone were to ask, I would pretend to be shy to show them a photo of me from high school, and then bashfully, potentially after some badgering, would admit that I have, in fact improved. I get no greater pleasure than having the guys who didn’t know I existed in high school offer to buy me a drink at the bar, and awkwardly say that they must have “lost” my number from years ago (spoiler: I was just too uncool for them to have had it back then).
Essentially, I really like to play off of the fact that I glowed up.
But I really didn’t. I smartened up, sure. I learned that you need to pluck those little baby hairs from under your eyebrow arch, that concealer shouldn’t be applied with a paint roller, that my hair didn’t look “fine” just letting it dry itself naturally, into a frizzy mess, and that I should never buy sweaters two sizes too big, because the oversized look, in fact, was not cute. I learned how to apply makeup better — a lot better — and I have my constantly low bank statement to show for it.
I never actually got better-looking. In fact, I got worse. I’m no stranger to the freshman 15, and my face has now aged in the slightest way which has caused me to scowl at all of the incoming freshmen, who are full of collagen and hope. If we’re talking about inner beauty, I’ve probably gotten even uglier, as apparent by most of the stories that I write on here and my general lack of ambition to keep up the facade of being a good person.
However, I ride on the assumption of others that my slightly better hygiene, and considerably better makeup brushes have transformed me into a more beautiful person. Sure, I might not be a model, but I sure am when you compare me to my “before” picture. Essentially, the fact that I used to be completely unfuckable has made me more fuckable now, by comparison; even if all of my fuckability has come from some expensive makeup and a general acceptance of crop tops, bodycon dresses, and things that usually garner a condescending comment from my mother.
Truly, I wish I did actually glow up. I’m envious of the girls who don’t have to fake the fact that when their bodies when through puberty, they magically, and more importantly, naturally, became considerably better-looking. I always wanted to have one of those moments where I wake up in the morning and magically discover DDs, or look in the mirror to be met by a better-looking version of myself. To the people who “grew into their features” or learned how to “embrace their natural beauty,” I wish I were you. But for now, I just have to be me, enhanced by Sephora..
Image via Shutterstock
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crazygirlfriend
Hiding from my mother and standards, both of whom would disown me if they heard most of these stories. Aspiring law school student, with a chihuahua named Bruiser and a head of unnatural blonde hair. Email me your "crazy" stories or any mixed drink recipes that taste like juice, but have copious amounts of vodka in them at [email protected] Watch the bitch behind these stories at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vrp2D9h3SMk&t=67s
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