I saw this when reading the usual Postsecret and couldn’t help but think she read my mind!
(And if you’ve no idea who’s The Sartorialist, you shouldn’t be reading this.)
We’ll get back to our regular programming very shortly….
(Editrix’s Note: This is an excerpt of a real life IM conversation between my younger sister and I….)
Moi:
i wanna write in my blog
31:50
but i’m stuck at the first sentence
32:09
i wanna write about why finding a relationship is like how to find an outfit to wear
kito:
12:32
ok’
32:54
lol
Moi:
12:33
its true
33:16
u can choose whether u want to dress for ur body type
33:20
or dress for ur mood
33:29
i realise all along i try to dress for my body type
33:35
it can be quite boring
kito:
12:33
lol
Moi:
12:33
but if i just dress according to my mood
kito:
12:33
kuku
Moi:
12:33
then it doesn’t mean its wrong
34:03
just means it depends on what works for me best
34:08
at that point of time
34:10
like guys
34:21
body type= ideal dream guy
34:27
or the guy u always go for
kito:
12:34
ok
34:52
lol
Moi:
12:34
mood= guys tt u know isn’t ur type or seems wrong….but it feels right somehow
34:59
just for now
35:01
and u never know
35:07
that’s how i feel about FC
kito:
12:35
ok
35:15
lol
35:24
why u tink i always go out with weird people
35:31
cause they are more fun.
35:32
lol
Some of the most trivial moments in life form the most defining neuroticisms in a person. That moment for me occurred the day the optometrist declared “Ah, you read too much… you need glasses!” I was eight years old.
Glasses are a strange thing. On everyone else, they lend an air of sophistication and wisdom. Once the predicament befalls oneself, they become a mishap instead- a sign of old age or worse still, the mark of a nerd. Those things didn’t come to mind the day I was picking out eyeframes at the optician’s with my parents. Given the fact that I was only a child, I was delighted to have a shiny new toy. It was a pair of light pink acrylic frames, large enough to cover my face, with a matching pink glasses chain (lest I ran around during recess and god forbid, drop my glasses and scratch them..).
The next day I went to school with nervous anticipation- “Would anyone notice?”, I asked myself. I did feel a pang of self-consciousness as I looked into the mirror that morning. As all mothers do, mine patted me on the head and said I looked wonderful. She was being kind of course. The initial reactions from my friends were of surprise and curiosity. I was apparently the first amongst them to don a pair of glasses because apparently I was the one who’d read the most. Curiosity became amusement as they took off my glasses and peered through the foggy thick lenses. And at risk of sounding like a Judy Blume cliche, amusement was replaced by mockery- in less than a week, I was known as “The Owl”.
Being a nerd isn’t the end of the world. In fact looking back, I marvel at how I used to digest Agatha Christie mysteries when I was ten. (My current reading habits consist of US Weekly and TimeOut if I’m feeling particularly astute.) However for a little girl whose ambition in life then was to become “Miss Universe” and was known as the belle of middle school, the transition can be hard to bear. I thought I was being oversensitive when I saw the gag of giggling girls hush whenever I came over. These were the same girls who’d used to fawn over the cool shiny stationery and cutesy hairstyles I would herald in. Then when the boys started taunting in the hallways “Look, here comes Bookworm!”, my suspicions arose. The final straw came when my crush, the Prince Charming I fell in love with at seven, announced to the world- “She? I can’t like her… she’s not pretty, she’s a nerd!” My world came tumbling down.
I spent the next few years of adolescence in relative obscurity, hidden behind my glasses. If I was going to be a pariah because I was clever, then damnit I’ll be the cleverest lil girl out there. Off I sailed into the horizon with my large pink-rimmed glasses as my flag, winning awards, scoring at exams and ironically given the moniker “The English Professor” by my own teachers. I was on a roll. When I was twelve, I had accepted the fact that I was never going to be a beauty queen. By then, I was part of the popular clique in school- only there by virtue of me being ‘the smart one’. I learned then that power came in various forms. As I watched the other girls fend off male attention (we were in the throes of puberty by then), I’d secretly wished that I could take off my glasses and be Superman. Being Clark all the time was becoming somewhat depressing.
Fast forward to high school. I was eighteen and still ‘the smart one’. I had a new pair of glasses by then. Rimless and narrow, the glistening of the frame rods in the sun were the only giveaway. They were the closest I came to being free of glasses since my parents had instilled the fear of contact lenses with horror stories of losing eyeballs and fungal infections. I fell in love with another boy and although we were friends, he didn’t reciprocate. Again, as I looked around and narrowed my eyes at peers who were starting to couple up, I felt sorry for myself. I was never pretty enough for someone to take a second take and see me as anything else but a friend.
Then came The Prom and I decided to take a stand. Potential blindness or not, I was going to put on contact lenses and finally break free of hiding behind the frames! The proverbial ugly duckling turned into a swan that night- it was a roaring success. Although the boy never became my boy, I didn’t forget that feeling as people came up to me and echoed the same sentiments “Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you..you look like a star!” There was no turning back.
Silently but steadily, my awkwardness grew into composure. I started appreciating my different look as the dark skinny girl faded into the background. My cheekbones became sharper, my almond eyes became more catlike and my curves finally decided to show up at my doorstep. Boys didn’t call me anymore because they wanted their homework done, they started calling because they “wanted to get to know me”. Part of me was secretly thrilled at the metamorphosis. The other half pretty much didn’t know how to deal with it.
I fell in love with a boy and this time, he actually loved me back. He said I was pretty and I was happy. Finally, I thought, someone who saw me as a Belle and not The Owl. It took a while to get used to. “You have such beautiful eyes,” he used to say “Sad eyes but beautiful…”
My eyes became sadder when he went away. For the longest time, I chose to believe that he realized his mistake and saw the real me. Quiet, insecure, dull- I was really the girl hiding behind her foggy thick lenses instead of the princess he’d thought he saw. My world came tumbling down. Now I know better- love sometimes just fade away and I try hard each day to be kinder to myself.
One gorgeous Sunday, I was browsing leisurely through the flea market and chanced upon a stall selling vintage eyeframes. My heart skipped a beat. Nestled in the rows of dusty archaic glasses was the most beautiful pair of cateye frame glasses. It was an experiment of exaggerated proportions as its gilded gold frame was balanced by the jet black lower rims. Gaudy from one angle while classic from another, its duality wasn’t for the faint of heart.
I slipped them on as a lark and looked into the mirror- I’d found my happy medium.
Perhaps it was the frame that accentuated my almond eyes. Or the gold that perfectly offset my tanned complexion . Maybe it was the little bit of geekiness with black rims. Whatever it was, it didn’t look like I was hiding behind the glasses anymore. Instead, they complimented my features and seemed to be coaxing out the girl I’ve grown into. I would love to bestow symbolism on this odd pair of glasses and think that it’s calling for me to fully embrace all my facades. The smart aleck alongside the exotic belle. Clark and Superman . The Owl and The Princess. Perhaps I’d forgiven the mindless taunts of children or maybe, just maybe- at the end of the day, its nothing more than a pair of glasses that I don’t feel ashamed of when I slip them on.
Epilogue: A couple of years ago, I bumped into the first boy as I had on my frumpiest outfit and you’d guessed it, my glasses. I strode up to him and uttered “Do you recognize me?”, confident that my metamorphosis would blow him away. He cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Of course, it’s you.” My ego deflated as I cursed the damn glasses. “Shit, did I still look like a nerd?”
Before leaving the city, we had a chat and I mustered my courage to ask “When we saw each other for the first time in 10 years, how did you know it was me? Do I still look horrendous?”
He laughed,
“Do you want to know the truth?
It was your eyes.
You did changed a lot and I almost didn’t recognize you. But when I saw your eyes, I told myself- there’s only one girl I know with those eyes.”
I remind myself with that story each time I get lost in trying to define myself. That while I was busy trying to prove myself worthy, there was someone who did notice the small things. And yes, it did turn out that he actually did love me too. He’d just thought he wasn’t smart enough for me.
