Unpretty

So I have always looked younger than my age. Sadly, I also BEHAVE much younger than my age. Every time someone told me, “Please show your ID card” or “Which college do you go to?”, I have secretly taken it as a compliment. But the truth is it takes a LOT of artificial effort to look “naturally young”. Especially now that I am almost over the hill, it almost makes me paranoid. I am not someone who can ‘age gracefully’; that’s just a polite way of saying, ‘I give up’. But I am also not someone who can starve herself to death or maintain poker straight hair. So like most things in life, I am stuck in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Through the week, I stay away from junk food or try to go jogging every morning at some godforsaken hour, but by Friday night, I am so depressed that I binge on all the sinful delicacies that cross my way…

I have tried experimenting with my hair but each time I have come back to the safe option, after massive hairfall or fashion disasters…

While I have moved on from the hideous orange track pants in college, I still can’t carry off the ‘dignified, classy yet sensuous look’ that comes so easily to women in the business papers…

And don’t even get me started on shoes. I have always admired Carrie each time she RUNS into the arms of Mr. Big in her six-inch stilettoes. Inspired, I bought myself a pair of golden heels, which, while not anywhere close to Carrie’s towering beauties, have not seen the light of day, since my happy feet simply refuse to co-operate. Life is so unfair. Short people should at least be born with magic feet; silver spoon be damned!

I can’t stress this enough and most women will agree with me: all those creams and moisturizers that claim to make your skin ‘glow’ overnight, are just cashing in on your insecurities. The only way to achieve that illusive ‘glow’ is to get pregnant. And since that happens to be a very expensive option, I have to resort to numerous painful alternatives for marginal benefits, which include sitting in shady parlours for hours and letting some strange woman hurt you in every way she can possibly devise, while obsessing about the quality of products used or if they can leave you scarred for ever…

When did it become so complicated to be a girl? I miss those days when I could just run around in shorts, bushy eyebrows and hairy arms, and still not care, as long as I could run fast, climb trees/walls, squeeze myself in dark holes and beat up boys.

You can buy your hair if it won’t grow…
You can fix your nose if you say so…
You can buy all the make-up that M.A.C. can make…
But if you can look inside you, find out who am I too…
Be in a position to make me feel so damn unpretty

We all are Dorian Grays at some level…