She Was A Girl

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“She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. And that’s important.” ~Marilyn Monroe.

Much to my mother’s disapproval, I’ve been on a Marilyn-Monroe-inspiration-spree recently. About being a woman, being beautiful, smiling, laughing and some of the more flippant things she said that just sound cool. I like them. Being a girl with (yes, be surprised if you know me) crippling self-esteem and self-image issues, I admire tremendously any woman who is comfortable with her body and sexuality, with her looks, with her femininity and womanliness- any woman who is as¬†comfortable in her skin as I’m not. Quotes like Monroe’s give me the strength¬†to get through the day¬†with a facade of confidence and security and freedom from self-doubt. Yes, darlings, the lack of self-consciousness that characterise¬†Malavika is just that: a facade.

And why? Had I been able to answer that five years ago, I would not be writing this today. I would not dread the hours spent with peers outside the four walls of my room. I would not dread judgement from my own parents despite knowing in my very bones that it’s impossible.

And again I ask myself: why? I’m not ashamed of my attributes: I’m smart, sarcastic, witty, friendly, funny and a nice person to be around because¬†I have to be. I’m not¬†pretty, I’m not¬†beautiful, I’m not¬†sexy.¬†My hair doesn’t fall perfect and straight; my stomach juts out, not in; my skin has monthly eruptions; my teeth aren’t like¬†Snaggletooth¬†(Sophie Kinsella? I forget) but they aren’t the best either. In short, I look like Miss Bingley’s description of Elizabeth- you know, the one where she provokes Darcy into calling Eliza gorgeous.

I was a tomboy for so long that by the time I remembered that I¬†am a girl, I’d forgotten how to be one. Sometimes I think the rest of the world had forgotten what I really am too. I came to makeup as an extension of dance, or as something to fool around with and play ‘disguise’ with (Five Find-Outers, I blame you). I came to heels because I realised that I was the only girl in my seventh grade class who’d never worn a pair. I came to clothes when my¬†male friend had to explain peplum to me- with a diagram. Before, I’d thought it was a dress material.

It suddenly comes to me (as it does every morning when I give myself those li’l pep talks) that all this sounds so shallow and nothing at all to do with the woman I am. Something I once read, like,¬†‘just because I’m not a lady doesn’t mean I’m not a woman’,¬†that was pretty cool. That was true, too. That¬†is true.

It’s just so hard to remember when I stare into the mirror at night.

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