Disclaimer: Feel free to ignore this post as it is the product of late-night ramblings that simply needs an outlet. Also, you are more than welcome to egg the computer in annoyance if you do choose to read it, though I suggest ruining someone else's computer and not your own. Cheers!
Hello. My name is Lindsey and I have a problem.
When you talk to me, you might not see it. In fact, I'm pretty sure you won't. I care little for the latest fashion trends, clothes, makeup, people's opinions of me, etc. I wear what I please and don't care what you think. I criticize people for being stuck on the media's idea of beautiful and I embrace my larger size.
What you don't see is that the sarcasm and stoicism is my armor; my escape clause. I hate myself, you see, I really do. I look in the mirror and I see this overweight, overstressed, ugly, self-conscious geek. For all my criticism of our society's false perception of beauty, deep down I want it. I want to be a girl who walks in, makes heads turn and knows she's the reason.
I went through all of high school and 90% of college without being asked out once. Not even once. It's amazing how the lack of something can hurt a girl's self esteem. I've received quite a variety of back-handed compliments and sugar-coated insults, but nothing cuts quite as deep as going unnoticed.
Looking in the mirror, I wonder it there's even the slightest possibility that someone could be interested in me --love me, even. For all my personality and intelligence, I can't see anything other than me, my scars, my imperfections, my weaknesses. It hurts like hell.
It's always 'if'. If I had done this. If I had tried that. Well, the 'if's are past and now here I am: my own creation and my worst nightmare.
I hate myself for this weakness. I call it my "Disney Princess Syndrome". Symptoms include unrealistic expectations about love, hair and waistline. In my circle of friends, I might be considered the staunchest and loudest opposition to this disease, yet I've succumbed to it just the same. Until the age of 19, I believe I was convinced I would eventually (translate: before I turned 22) a) develop a miraculous hourglass figure, b) wake-up with gorgeous hair and, most importantly, c) meet Prince Charming (or the closest non-fairytale syndicate) and ride off into the sunset to my great love affair.
Hm... yes. That plan went well, quite well. By the age of 20 and some odd months, I had resigned myself to the idea of perpetual solitude and accepted the idea of being single until I die. Well, sort of. Here I am, nearing 24, just as single (perhaps moreso, if that's possible?) as I was at 19, much more cynical and sans my rose-colored glasses. I am fine with my singleness. Really. I'm not actively pursuing anyone and I don't intend to (not saying I wouldn't jump if I had the chance, of course).
Damn you, Disney, it's rooted deep. There's still that stupid, idiotic, imbecilic, moronic, sophomoric, immature and quite positively insane part of my brain that insists I am incredibly lonely without a member of the opposite sex on my arm. For clarification, though they are closely related, this is not the same part of my brain that insists on watching romantic comedies or reading copious amounts of Jane Austen when it breaks out of its cage once a year to my complete horror.