I loathe photo’s and mirrors, they all share one common charteristic: the ability to snap my dreams across the knee and sling them to the ground. Each time I look into a mirror or picture, my monstrous features pop out in impossible ways. My dreams shatter, as I realize how unrealistic they really were. The places I’ve been, the faces I made, and the features God gave me, are far from the romantic picturesque of my blissful reveries. But what is life if all you have is beauty?

When I jog through the park on lonely days, the boys playing basketball aren’t going to stop and say “ Gee, she’s gorgeous.” They’ll just keep playing. When I walk into a room overflowing with people, nobody’s jaw drops in reverence. When I run by the grocery store, nobody compliments my dress. When I sit hands folded on a wooden church pew, no one is staring from the corner of their eye.
What are the benefits of such attention? As I lay in bed at night, and when I daydream on long plane trips, I am the most beautiful woman in the universe. My smile is infectious, and my eyes sparkle with a radiance previously unknown to mankind. I can “work” any outfit, and as I sit in deserted corners photographers scurry up to get my picture, because wether I’m posing for a fashion magazine or climbing out of bed I always look perfect. The only disease I posess is photogenicness.
Recently however, when I wake up in the morning or snap out of a daydreaming fit I feel relived, and almost happy. Previous fantasies are nightmares to me now. What do I have to show if I am beautiful? It is tempting to view such a person as skin deep. When I make friends or fall in love how do I know the return of affection isn’t just a reaction to something that isn’t even me? For although beauty tags along, like a shadow wherever I go, did I make it? Did I achieve it? And do I deserve it? Do I need it? Do I want it?

Beauty is not terrible. Beauty is something some have; It is something others strive for. Some get it, some don’t. I don’t have it, and now, despite the fact that I’m a hopeless romantic, I see myself sitting high a top a horse staring forcefully at the world below, or lying in field of wildflowers - shining with a happiness that attracts many: it is not me. I am not beautiful. I accept it. I thank God for who I am, I take care of the body he has given me, and I do not change it. If I had beauty tagging along everywhere I went, eventually it would become a burden.

When my best friend met me for the first time she didn’t say, “hey she’s pretty, lets be friends” It was something a little more weighty, a little better then that. She looked at me and warmed, because even though my teeth weren’t perfect, I wasn’t afraid to smile wide. I held my pimple dotted face high, and led her into a conversation more interesting then she’d ever heard before.
“Gee” she must have thought. “ Lets be friends.”
So maybe it’s alright if your not the most beautiful girl in the room, maybe there is even a better side to being ugly.