Porcelain Envy

I love myself. I do. I love that my my skin is the lightest of ivory white and lightly speckled with orange sun kisses. I love my lack of athletic ability and the way I avoid physical activity like the plague. I like that I purposely try to use the biggest words that I can think of in place of ordinary, everyday words. I love that I don’t have an ounce of muscle on my body. I love that I am relatively short and that I don’t have protruding cheekbones. I love that my eyes are a mixture of both emerald and sapphire and have specks in them where the color is less intense.

Despite all the parts of me that I love, I still turn green with envy on occasion. The occasion where this happens most is SOCCER GAMES.

Let me explain further.

My little sister is 16 years old. Beautiful, tall, with darkened skin and an athletic build. The brat.

She’s been playing soccer since longer than I can remember, and she’s good. She currently plays on my former high school’s team, and on a competition team as well. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to the classy city of Las Vegas, Nevada, to spectate at one of her tournaments.

My pasty complexion is extremely sensitive to the sun, and laying outside on a blanket for three hours a day surely didn’t do my derma any favors. But while I was laying there, letting my flesh turn the color of a ripe tomato, and attempting to follow my sister’s soccer match, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of those stupid soccer chicks.

They ALL had naturally bronzed skin, a lean, slender build, and the ability to run after a stupid ball for hours on end. The direct and exact opposite of myself, in other words.

Like I said, I’m happy with the way that I am. But gosh dang it I wish I were a sporty girl. It doesn’t even matter what sport, really. I just wish that my limbs were capable of enough coordination that I could at least be capable of playing a casual game of catch or pass or whatever soccer players do… (dribble?) without causing myself any physical harm, or kicking the ball into the neighboring soccer field.

I can’t help but wonder, if I would have stuck with the recreational sports my parents signed me up for in my elementary school years, if I would have had the potential to become a sporty girl. The world may never know.

Me wanting to be an athlete is about as ridiculous as Jenna from 13 Going On 30 wanting to be 30.

So I will continue to embrace my clumsy, uncoordinated, and awkward self, and watching my sister’s sporting games from indoors in effort to save my fair skin from acquiring melanoma. And I will stop wishing I were a sporty girl, and love the fact that I’m the dorky, pasty-white girl who can hardly walk in a straight line. Because she is just as good as every last one of those jock chicks. Chick jocks?

I think that’s how you learn to be happy in this world. If you can figure out who you are and then learn to embrace that person, and love her for her faults, flaws, and positive qualities alike, regardless of what the girl next to you has, you’ve got it made.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, comparison is the thief of joy.

This post was all over the place. Kind of like me.

M.

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