Figure 3.12

The summation of my experience on this planet has served to teach me only one thing: boys are dumb. I can be walking down the street wearing my baggiest sweats, with the dirtiest hair and no make-up, and receive the same number of honks and "ow OWWWW"s I would if I were wearing my shortest mini and had somehow "misplaced" my top. This can only lead me to believe that in the long run, looks don't really matter. All I need is proof of my womanhood and KABLAM! Interest pops out of thin air.

Sidenote: This isn't to say that I in any way deem myself desirable. As much as I say "OH EM GEE, I'm lyk, the hawtest thing ever!", no one can expect that I'm actually taking myself seriously. Don't get me wrong, I'm finally in a place where I can love myself and have gotten over the fact that I will never tan or be labeled as not too skinny. This, however, is in no way an indication of pride, just because I don't hate my body. In fact, I despise pride; every time I catch a hint of actual pride in myself, I immediately do my best to kill it. I loathe it with a passion usually reserved for breathing in autumn air (ask my bathroommie, I nearly fell out the window yesterday).

So, back to interest. My biggest self-deprecating issue is that in the past, I have found that as soon as initial interest wears off and a guy realizes exactly how much of a handful I am, he loses interest and things draw to a rapid close. This, in turn, leads back to my biggest internal struggle: I am always too much, yet somehow never enough (but this is deep-rooted hurt that I just don't have time to get into LOLZ [my annoying, common way of taking a serious statement and half pretending I wasn't serious at all]).

I once dated a guy who, after several months, informed me that I didn't have to bother shaving my legs anymore if I didn't feel like it. He said he didn't mind. So I stopped. He then told me I looked much prettier without make-up. So I stopped bothering with make-up. He also encouraged me to wear my hair up as much as possible because it brought out my eyes. So I wore my hair up, which led to washing it less (now everyone say "EW"). He also, I noted, paid me the same compliments whether I had tried to impress him or had just come from the gym. So I stopped trying altogether. And then, with shocking clarity, I realized that I had turned into a complete slob, and he couldn't have cared less.

The idea of a guy loving me even at my grungiest is sweet, don't get me wrong. The problem comes when I no longer feel the thrill of being beautiful for someone; the rush of having the one I care about looking at me and not being able to say a word, because he can't breathe. So while having my man not mind when I don't dress up once in awhile is fine, I infinitely prefer someone who notices when I try.

It seems we have come full circle. Boys are dumb. End of story.

...But not quite. I have never really been one for caring about my figure, mostly because my metabolism is killer, and likes to play tricks on me. Like taking every particle of fat in my body and flushing it out no matter what I eat. Once, I gained 15 pounds, and only my mom noticed. I looked exactly the same! But as the years have gone on, I've realized that it's a good thing I never tried to fit a certain mould. Every guy on the earth has a different idea of what is beautiful! Some like blonds, some like brunettes; some like short, some like tall (usually more to do with their own height than anything else); some prefer deathly skinny runway models who wouldn't know a cheeseburger if it ran them over with a lawnmower, while others like 'em curvy. This epiphany has birthed in me a surety that this bod is the one I'm meant to have, and one day I'll find a man to appreciate it for what it is.

Even if he's dumb.