Blurry Beauty

There is something about the word beauty that always bothered me. I could never pinpoint what it was, but growing up I never understood what being beautiful was about. In the beginning, I thought I was pretty amazing.

I recall the warm autumn night, back in 1989 when my father drove me back to my Girl Scouts retreat from the optometrist. He told me not to worry, that many children had glasses and that my eye sight wasn't too bad; I wasn't going blind. I told him that people, when they get older get contact lenses, and maybe by then they would have something that would correct my vision altogether. He assured me that when I was of age, I could get lenses or whatever new innovation would be out then. I had a good nights rest with my fellow scouts, eating 'smores and bananas under the Saudi sky, in the courtyard, seeing blurry objects up above.

I tried on my new glasses; they had a thick red rim and a connecting bar between the two eyes which went over the top of my nose. They covered up half of my face, but for once in a long time, objects had distinctive shapes.

With my new glasses I thought I could conquer the world. Unfortunately it was then that I realized that the world would essentially combat me.

It was at 9, that I realized that beauty did not lie in the eye of the beholder, but rather in the hands of fourth-graders. They mocked me, because I was taller than the rest, very skinny and now fully equipped with ammunition- big eye glasses. If I accidentally sat in the wrong seat, they would point and sneer, mocking at my inability to see, even with my restored vision.

I still managed to believe I was all right. Regardless of what my peers thought, I still wore my prettiest clothes and matched my socks and my pony tails and began every day with a smile.

Over time, things began to change. My classmates learned how to manipulate my version of myself and made a mockery of it. I had lost my glowing optimism and became my own worst nightmare.

By the time I was in the seventh grade, I became obsessed with trying to make myself look beautiful. I started experimenting with the curling iron, different shades of lip balm, mixing and matching outfits. Nothing seemed to work, the mirror always frowned back a dark, skinny girl with huge glasses.

No boy noticed me, instead my friends tried to help me out, by covering me up with foundation, four shades lighter than my tanned skin, and blow drying my hair so it was straighter and not as frizzy. Looking back now I probably looked like a bulimic insomniac.

I finally got my first pair of contacts when I turned thirteen. They were the Optima FW brand from the local Walmart eye center. The first morning after I got them, I woke up an hour earlier than usual to make sure I could put my contacts in. I was petrified of anything touching my face, but after an hour and a half, I was finally able to go to school, my face free of anything bulky.

Although contacts should have restored my faith in beauty, they didn't. By this time, I was convinced that regardless of how I thought I looked, no one else thought the same.
I endured years of struggle, trying to come to terms with myself and my beauty. I started wearing make-up, learning how to flatten, my rebellious hair, to give myself French manicures, but nothing seemed to cure my misconception of myself.

 In high school I became very involved in a variety of activities and became friends with people who knew how to enjoy life. Instead of occupying my time with buying new jeans and sneakers, I began to volunteer with young children and senior citizens. I became involved in running clothing drives for Christmas and fruit drives in the Spring. 

Senior year in high school, when everyone started obsessing, I stopped. There was nothing more I could do to try and make myself more beautiful. No makeup, or hair dye, or color contacts could alter what I looked like. I had to make do with myself. It was at this time, somewhere between changing for winter track and reading Hamlet, that I realized that beauty, in its purest form, is your inability to see the lack of it. During our senior awards ceremony, I received the SMILE club award. The presenters of the award said that the recipient was someone who put a smile on peoples faces every day and in doing so put a smile on her own face as well. As I went up to receive the award, I realized that if I wanted to be beautiful, I had to begin acting beautiful and believing I was beautiful, because people around me already believed it.

So I began. I learned to wear neutral lip gloss, and learned to smile genuinely. I learned to appreciate criticism, and continued to shoo away compliments modestly. I learned to walk with my head up instead of counting the tiles below. I learned to wake up with a smile and spend random moments laughing. I learned to appreciate my flaws and the deliberate imperfections which allowed me to be human. I learned to breathe.

Recently I went in for an eye check-up hoping to get a consultation about Lasik, the magical new treatment which corrects impaired vision. My doctor informed me that I was a prime candidate because my vision was stable and I fit the criteria. I thought about it.

As I sit here and write, I have on my new glasses. They are brown-rimmed and cover half of my face, but I am smiling. Because although I sometimes stumble over my own two feet, I can still look up at the blurry stars and remember, that if they can shine because they believe they can shine, well then so can I.