It’s that time of year again. My social feeds are full of happy beautiful girls sitting in perfect well coordinated dorm rooms. Monogrammed pillows and perfectly matched bedding. Photos of bid day celebrations. Tiny girls crying tears of joy being hugged by other tiny girls, perfectly mussed hair and bright white grins.
Then there are girls like me. Don’t get me wrong. I was in a sorority. I was. I was the troublemaker. The one that our wonderful sweet president would take aside and say, “Megan. Do we need to talk?” I was the one that gave the group “character.”
Even as a kid I would beg my mom to let me wear bows and frills. “Oh, Megan. You look better in…tailored clothes.” I never knew what it meant. I wanted to be the cheerleader with the perfect outfit and the perfectly organized room. I bought books on organization at nine years old and would sit at my little makeshift vanity and try to fix my hair in the right way, to draw attention away from my big nose and buck teeth. But it was always “not quite.”
I tried out for cheerleading. Didn’t make it. I dated the soccer star. A month later he sent me a letter. Turns out it was a joke. The soccer team had picked me as the ugliest girl in school. I can’t make this shit up. Rejections fueled my creativity and gifted me strength, but deep down I have always wanted to be “that girl.”
My sister is gorgeous. Without trying. Green eyes, high cheekbones, perfect teeth. Amazing style. Always the life of the party. But with just the right amount of edge. She is “that girl.”
I know I am supposed to embrace the path life has taken me on. It’s what made me a writer. But now I have a 12-year-old daughter. She’s just like me. I adore her and all of her quirks, but I see what lies ahead. I see that she will march to the beat of her own drum. I see that she will get her heart broken. But Charlie is different. She saw those girls and made her choice. She decided she was who she was and embraced it. At twelve years old. She stands her ground. She is loyal and fierce and unapologetically herself. At twelve.
She’s not “that girl.” But Charlie knows. She knows she is a force to be reckoned with. She’s the one “that girl” will envy. I certainly do.
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