I’m twenty-one, and I’m not where I thought I’d be. I’m noshing on an everything bagel that I evidently did not talk myself out of eating, reading a magazine that I have no intention of purchasing. I didn't wash my hair today. I wore this shirt last night--horizontal stripes, no less. I don’t say what I mean and my eyes water entirely too much (mostly with happy tears). You know, I’m not really sure where I saw myself at twenty-one; I think I saw a strong woman though, but I may have seen her in high heels and red nail-polish, cradling a magnificent handbag in the crook of her arm. She may have been firmly opinionated and was most assuredly (not too) crazy in love with her accountant prince.
I do paint my nails red.
But I wear flats most days. I mascara my tired eyes each morning and laugh loudly when I feel like it. I bring flowers to sad friends. My backpack can be my boyfriend. And I pick myself up off of the floor when I need to.
The ELLE ladies are certainly beautiful and successful. Their racing careers and big plans are neat. I look down at my plan-changing, sesame-seed covered self and the only thing I can think of wanting today is a chilly rain. But if ELLE really knew me, they’d put me in their pages, maybe edging out Lauren Conrad or Bar Refaeli.
I'm marvelous. So marvelous.