Twenty Three

When I was fourteen I thought my awkward stage would pass. My nose would magically get smaller. My love handles would suddenly disappear. I’d grow a foot longer. I’d be discovered by a model-scout and start my lifelong modeling career. I’d meet a Richard Gere look-alike and eventually have his 84397508475 children. I’d also know exactly what I was good at and what I was meant to do in life. Most importantly, I’d know exactly the person I wanted to be.

I turn twenty three today. I still don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m good at. I still struggle with those love handles. My nose can still give Pinocchio a run for his money. I’ve leafed through more Erkylles than Richard Geress. I’m still a measly 5’0. The only times I’ve been photographed was when I paid for it.

Do I still care? I could sit here and lie to all the fourteen year olds and say that all those things are trivial. When you get older you realize you were running after all the wrong things. You eventually become a better person and you figure out everything in your life.

On the other hand, I can truly testify you don’t live happily ever after. Life gets worse. Look at me; I’m sitting here writing this forty five minutes before my twenty third birth day. If you don’t like the person standing before you in the mirror at fourteen you’ll never grow to like them at twenty three. Although, you can try forcing it. I do it everyday. I put on my too tight clothes and my bright red lipstick and hope things might change.

And then there’s regret. Regretting things you could’ve done at fourteen that could’ve changed your life at twenty three. And infinite sadness. Sadness at the fact that each year will take away one ray of hope. One less chance of being a model. One less chance of finding Richard Gere. One last chance of liking myself.