My husband pointed above our heads as we walked outside. Somehow, when I wasn't noticing, our pink dogwood tree had filled our front yard with the cheerful promise of spring. It seemed that, just yesterday, it was nothing but empty, brown branches. Being busy with everyday life and walking with my head down in a gloomy fog, I had failed to notice that winter had departed and the cure for my cabin fever had arrived at last. As a matter of fact, many other beautiful colors had been sneaking into the local landscape as well. If I had not looked around at reality, I might still be walking with my head down, sulking in winter misery, while spring passed by.
For reasons I won't get into, I pulled out my yearbooks the other evening and looked at my photos. And then I started to cry. Of course, I did attend high school in the 80's...
This was supposed to make me feel better about myself. I was planning to post those pics on Facebook, with the caption "in high school I always thought I was ugly, but that girl is not ugly." I did not get the reassurance I was looking for. As a matter of fact, one of the pictures was partially obscured by a big "X" over it and a mean word. Who would do that in someone's yearbook? Of course, there is a distinct possibility that it was me.
Yeah, I wasn't one of the "beautiful people." I had zero confidence in myself. I had terrible hair that did not respond well to all the perms, feathering, and teasing required for 80's popularity. I didn't stand up straight because I was too tall and too thin. I had actually been called Olive Oyl more than a few times, which was horribly inaccurate because she had straight hair.
I hid behind my friends. They probably never knew that I secretly thought they were better than me. Prettier. More popular. More fun to be around.
I had bullies.
Looking at those pictures took me back in a powerful way. I was flooded with the same feelings of inadequacy and longing that I had then, even though I am different now. Different on the outside, thankfully, but also different on the inside. I'm more comfortable with who I am. I don't hide anymore.
To be honest, once in a while I still feel the need to compare myself to the beautiful people. After the yearbook fiasco, I confided in someone who knew me then. Someone ten years younger than me, who did not know what ugly duckling I was talking about. Someone who assured me that, during those awkward years of feeling like I didn't measure up, she was looking up to me, thinking I was "the coolest, most beautiful teenager."
She is so much smarter than me. :-)
