I spend a lot of time on tubes. An awful lot. Living in North London (don't get me on a technicality, we have an Underground Station), going to uni in South London, and working both in East and West, makes for a lot of time spent on Public Transport. Mostly cursing it.
Today was, like pretty much every day of the week, a day I spent sitting on the lovely Picadilly Line, amongst other. Opposite me, was a girl of indeterminable age (anywhere between 14 and 23), who was very pretty. This got me thinking. What would it be like, to be one of those naturally, classically pretty people. Is it an actual advantage? And as much as I curse so many different things about myself, would I really want to be one?
Growing up, I was the fat kid. The one that was told it was natural I would be a good swimmer, seeing as fat swims. Don't get me wrong, I didn't suffer half the bullying some people have and still do, but amongst the skinny kids, I was the fat. Though looking bad, fat is not the way I'd describe myself. Not so long ago I found a picture of me and a friend dressing up (she is now a pretty successful model). I think we were wearing her mothers clothing or similar. We must've been around 12, and the clothes are quite literally hanging off of her (though she already had the modelling pose down to a tee), whereas I practically looked like they were my clothes, and frankly, I had a cracking pair of legs on me. Which is funny, as they have now become the bane of my life (I have a tendency to be dramatic). You may have noticed I have a penchant for 3/4 lengths, and bar my standard pair of M&S ones, I have to make them myself. Why? Because I have calves, actual ones, ones you can see. Somewhere between inheriting them from my mum (who has cracking calves but never shows them off) and many years playing basketball, they are not slim calves, and thus do not fit into anything designed to stop somewhere along said lower limb.
Since my days of an amateur model, dressing up a good 15 years ago, I have fluctuated between curvy and chubby, most of the time sticking to the chubbier end of the scale. Some days, in the right clothes, the right attitude, and the right fat pants, I think I'm alright. Other days I loathe myself beyond belief. Which seems so silly. Its not like I gain dress sizes overnight. But I just can't help it.
But let's go back to the classically pretty aspect. I am not, and this is not some ploy to be told otherwise. Most days, I think I am alright. On the odd occasion, I even quite like what I see. But be classically pretty? That almost seems a bit boring. Had I been born with the perfect hair (as opposed to flat and thin), rosacea free skin (thanks parentals), symmetry like the perfect square (or there about) and eyebrows like they were meant to be, I don't think I would be where I am now, the person I am now, or in anyway me.
I doubt I would've gone through the hair choices I made (good and bad), or adorned my body with the metal and ink that is part of me. I am in no way saying I have made these choices because of it, or to rebel, but its all part and parcel of who I am, and my shape, my history, and my face all are part of this, and yes I do like how I look with them, more than I do without.
Because of who I am, I have become who I am. Had I not gone out with the wrong boyfriends, gone travelling and did all those weird and wonderful things I can call experience, I probably would not be living in London, with the love of my life (he truly is awesome, and yes you may discreetly puke), is that worth being deemed "classically pretty"? I think not.
If I looked any different, I wouldn't be my parents daughter (I'm still unsure how to take the "you look just like your dad" comments - I'm pretty sure I'm not a 6'3 bearded man), and I am damn lucky to have parents like them. They are many parts crazy, but supportive and generally the best ones going (plus, they are the only ones I've got).
Admittedly, this is a fairly random post, but after spotting that girl today, who by the way, spent a the many stations she sat opposite me looking utterly miserable, I decided, its time to love me a little more. Warts and all. (which luckily I have none of, literally speaking).