On my driver’s license, it says a skinny 115 lbs at my 16 year old frame.

You see though, of course, years have passed and I am not quite the same. Yes, a little more weight. Yet, maybe I have more muscle now. My experience is heavy. My scars droop.

About once a month, I cave into this worry about my appearance. I look down and worry about the barely noticeable inner tube. I look at my feet and wish they were smaller…dainty. I wish my ankles would not be cankles. And I look at my face and wish that it was blemish-free. Clear, perfect just like the woman I am supposed to be.

Yet I am crippled by childhood memories where I learned that it was not ok to look different and be different.

Then I revert.

I really don’t care. I would rather wear my black yoga pants (even though I dislike yoga) and my hoodie all day. I wear makeup only a few days out of the year—usually for a wedding or a costume party. And usually, it’s quite a mess because I don’t have the practiced hand of lining my eyes perfectly. Lotion? What’s that? Nail polish? My shoes are all scuffed, even my flats. Because yes, I have ran in them. Into water.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up this way. My sister is quite the opposite—rarely going out without makeup. She has her outfits carefully put together in the proper New York City style. My mom wore red lipstick frequently and indulged regularly at the Estee Lauder counter.

For now, I like to wander around without the required eyeliner (of a Mission hipster), without the tight jeans (because obviously I would rather be more comfortable)…although now I have upgraded to nice shaded hipster sneakers of light aqua and bright yellow.