I Am Made Up of the Pieces of You
I sometimes feel insecure, fragmented, anxious, though I want to feel confident, composed and strong. I sometimes want to be gutsy, to chop off my hair, but somebody else beats me to it.
I sometimes develop an unhealthy obsession with a young woman who I think is better than me in most ways.
(Later, we become unlikely friends, and I see that she is just as awesome as I thought, and better. I remember that I am pretty awesome, too.)
I sometimes say “maybe today is the day, maybe this is the time when I cut it all off,” but then another friend, someone I’ve thought of as innocent and sweet, does it first, without so much hesitation.
(Later, I realize that she is also brave, and out-spoken, and hilarious, among other qualities.)
I sometimes worry that I have the wrong type of face for a pixie–nose too big and all that–but then a friend who had thought the same thing about her own features assures me that I am beautiful and it would look great.
(She also kisses me on the cheek, lets me sleep on her couch, and comes running when I am crying and need her.)
I sometimes think that I am too fat for short, short hair–that I will cut it once I’ve lost just a little more weight. But then a friend and I start going to ballet torture together, and it is life-changing, and ridiculous, and we get into better shape.
(We also become better friends, which makes working together a giggle-filled joy.)
I sometimes like to think that I am daring and original, but then I realize that I am not even close to being the first person in this world–or even in my group of friends–to make the big cut.
(I do it anyways.)
Because not just sometimes, but always, I admire the amazing women in my life. Always I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have the friends that I have.
And never am I embarrassed or ashamed to say that they did it first and I followed in their footsteps.