Back in high school--and Moey can attest to this--I idolized the beautiful people. The cheerleaders, the popular girls, the ones with the cute football-player boyfriends. They wore the boys' class rings, or their big letter jackets. They had beautiful skin and sweet storybook nicknames, like Peaches. They danced to the slow songs while I stood on the sidelines. How I longed to be held in someone's arms on a Friday night in the darkened gym, swaying gently to "Michelle" by the Beatles. I had some pimples and identified with Janis Ian's painful song, "At Seventeen." I even idolized Moey--pretty, Landlubber jeans, nice boyfriends who gave her heart necklaces.
One day, I wore a new cream-colored Ultrasuede skirt and sleeveless floral blouse bought at Alexander's [where else?] with my mother. I was in English Honors class when one of the girls I put on a pedestal said something to me like That's a nice outfit. She had actually noticed me, and seemed surprised by my good taste. My skirt had registered on her social scale.
But now I wonder, why did I care so much, put so much weight in others' opinions? Couldn't I see my own inner and outer beauty? How about my hard work on the track team, the letter I earned for my own varsity jacket? The way the girls gathered around me when I read an inspirational quote before every track meet?
What about my gift of true friends, and my love of writing, and the chance to learn to do it on the school and town newspapers? What about my unique way of seeing the world? Each of us has that.
The point is, I knew my new outfit was pretty. Did I need a popular girl to affirm it for me?
I ponder this now that Figgy is a high school sophomore. Can she see what lies inside? Her beautiful soul, her heart, her brain, her talent? Do we praise those too little, and her keen fashion eye too much? Do we praise everything too much? Does she have to arrive there--in the Land of I Believe--on her own two feet? And what if she is teetering on two-inch heels--will she make it safely?
Michelle, my belle.
These are words that go together well,
My Michelle.
Michelle, my belle.
Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble.
Good night.
One day, I wore a new cream-colored Ultrasuede skirt and sleeveless floral blouse bought at Alexander's [where else?] with my mother. I was in English Honors class when one of the girls I put on a pedestal said something to me like That's a nice outfit. She had actually noticed me, and seemed surprised by my good taste. My skirt had registered on her social scale.
But now I wonder, why did I care so much, put so much weight in others' opinions? Couldn't I see my own inner and outer beauty? How about my hard work on the track team, the letter I earned for my own varsity jacket? The way the girls gathered around me when I read an inspirational quote before every track meet?
What about my gift of true friends, and my love of writing, and the chance to learn to do it on the school and town newspapers? What about my unique way of seeing the world? Each of us has that.
The point is, I knew my new outfit was pretty. Did I need a popular girl to affirm it for me?
I ponder this now that Figgy is a high school sophomore. Can she see what lies inside? Her beautiful soul, her heart, her brain, her talent? Do we praise those too little, and her keen fashion eye too much? Do we praise everything too much? Does she have to arrive there--in the Land of I Believe--on her own two feet? And what if she is teetering on two-inch heels--will she make it safely?
Michelle, my belle.
These are words that go together well,
My Michelle.
Michelle, my belle.
Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble.
Good night.
Posts
High school is a rough world for most of us. Of course, I can’t speak for the elite, but I am willing to bet that things really only appeared perfect for them. Love, Linda
ReplyDeleteAnd I like the song “Seventeen.”