Fine

I'll be fine. I really will. Or maybe not.

I went to the store to pick out a homecoming dress. It seems like this wouldn't be too hard. It's true. It isn't. It's just intimidating.

First off, sale racks aren't sales. They're the unwanted, unused, and unloved that no body likes. No body meaning pencils wearing size three that throw away the ones that don't show every minute curve of their little, straight body that sits perfectly. I know what Bruno Mars is taking about now in "Just The Way You Are". Everything is perfect without their trying. So why do they try so hard if they're already so perfect? They cake make-up on like they're frosting a cake. They pick apart their insecurities even though they should never have any. They are perfect. Sadly enough, I admire them. Who wouldn't? Their hair falls just that way so it flatters their eyes, their shape, their everything that makes them perfect. They're perfect. They're everything I'm not.

Those size three pencils whom I admire so much, throw away the dresses I love to the sales rack. The ones that hide me. The ones that flatter what good parts I have. The ones that say, "I'm here," rather than, "Here I am." The ones that size 16 and up girls would die to fit into. The ones that one girl literally died  starving herself to fit into. What a shame. The ones that flatter everyone, if they fit. Honestly, who could fit into a dress made for a pencil?

 I stood in front of the mirror, begging to fit into one of the dresses I have picked out. But I fail. Except for one. It needs some alterations. That's when I realize: It's the dress that needs the alterations, not me. I've spent hours scraping through the racks, watching other girls light-heartedly picking up any dress their heart desires as they joke and text and flirt and... be themselves, the perfects. I am not them. But I am me. I wish to be them. I wish to be thin and perfect. But I will never be.

I bought the dress, hoping I will have better luck elsewhere and I have the ability to return the only dress that I have chosen. Unfortunately, (you can guess the rest that I did not find another better). So maybe it isn't that I have chosen the one dress that works. Maybe it's that the only dress that works picked me. But that still makes me un-perfect. At least I'm wanted... by something.

So when I stand in front of the mirror, and I look at what I see, but I wished to be what I'm not. But I am me. I am proud to be me. Just not in a dress made for a pencil.