Dimples and Dragnet

I am not the cute girl.

The smart girl, the career girl, the artist, the activist, the ardent lover, the reliable friend, the person to call in a crisis… these sound more familiar to me. And sometimes I can be beautiful, in the right light, with the right make-up, in the right clothes. But my body is intimidatingly long, my features angular and sharp, my mind strategic, clever, dangerous...

The cute girl—my perpetual nemesis-- sports her round cheeks, bright eyes, bouncy short stature, and absence of substantive thought with an ease that makes love seem so simple. There is nothing complicated about her-- no mystery to unravel, no depths to plumb—eager and alert and vapid. She’s approachable and adorable, enjoying her surface conversations, pleasantries, and generic social scripts. When I speak with her, she says I use big words. When I am seated next to her smallness, smelling the demure disposition wafting from her, I imagine it must be nice to not suffer such heavy thoughts all the time.

If she weren't so genuine I'd probably be angry at her. But she can't help being who she is anymore than I can help being her opposite. And I always forfeit the game to her, mostly because she will win anyway. The one for me is never going to be the one for her, and vice versa. The one for me will be intrigued by me—drawn to me. She’ll already know that I can craft a life filled with self-actualization and happiness. That I can be her passionate equal. That I can be the one person who is actually worth the effort.

I just can't be the cute girl