Sunglasses ✧ h.s. (re-write)

0.8 :: "Most people have a weed stash, but you have secret cleaning supplies."

(July 2019)

I bloody hate proofreading and I always miss mistakes when I do so be aware that I v often miss words out or write the wrong word when I'm typing bc that's just something my brain does all the time. If you spot a mistake pls tell me thank

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When I was ten, I participated in my first ever running competition.

Until then, running had simply been a hobby - an extra-curricular activity my mother had insisted I take up, but I ended up enjoying. I found that I loved the freedom of it, of not being able to think of anything except breathing and the slap slap slap of my feet against the ground. I liked that it was an activity my mother let me do in my spare time that required me not being around her. If I had to pick the best part about running, it had to have been that - my mother not being able to bother me whilst I did it. I was good though, a fact I didn't quite realise myself. My small stature and short legs gave others the impression that I wouldn't stand a chance, but once I was off, I was off. I loved winning races, seeing the suprised expressions of competitors and spectators alike when I pushed ahead.

So when my running coach put me in my very first regional competition, I should have been thrilled - and I was. I was also acutely nauseated. In the weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds leading up to my first race, a flood of insecurities threatened to drown me. I was short. What if my strides were too short to keep up and embarassed myself? What if I tripped? What if I just happened to live in an area of slow runners, and the other competitors were much faster than me? I clearly remember staring at the mirror in my bedroom, staring at myself and overanalysing every part of my body, wondering if there was a single one that would lead to my downfall, or if it was the combination of them all that would make up my failure. In fact, it became a ritual, standing in front of my mirror and tearing myself apart. I did it before every race, and slowly, before any big event. Every piano or violin recital. Every school dance. In an odd way that didn't make sense to anybody but me, it made me feel better to make myself feel worse.

Anne promises to start organising the matchmaking process immediately, and I know better than to doubt her when I see the spark in her eyes. She seems so damn hopeful, so certain that this will work. Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I go back to my old ritual and stare at myself once more in the full length mirror by the door of my dorm room. I'm... short. Do boys like that? Being firmly in October, it's too chilly to wear clothes that highlight my figure, but I know my body enough to know that beneath the clothes, I barely have one. My boobs are by no means large, my stomach is by no means flat, and even though Frida has told me more than once that my wide hips are a blessing, but I haven't quite gotten around to seeing them that way yet.

"You should run," I tell my reflection. I should, I know that. Running is a good habit, and although my body isn't perfect, it keeps me in decent shape.

Contrary to what some may believe, I don't think I'm hideous. Nor do I hate myself. Staring into this mirror, however, I fail to see what would capture Anne's son for any extended period of time. My body isn't horrible; I just feel overwhelmingly average. I don't know how to talk to boys in a way that gets them interested. I don't how to be interesting. I just know how to be... me. Whether that will be enough, I just have to wait and see. The anticipation fills me with both dread and excitement, just as I always felt before my races.

Heaving a sigh, I open the door and let myself out, locking it behind me. I need to get a move on with all the studying I've been neglecting. As much as I love the privacy of my room, it's too easy to procrastinate with so many distractions around. I need the pressure of a public place, the fear that people will judge me for not doing work. At home when nobody's watching, I can do whatever I like, and that doesn't bode well for my attention span.