Destined Fur More

Platypus of the Human Race

Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes...

How do you measure the life of a woman or man?

            I slammed my hand on my alarm clock, groaning as I saw its early time. I was half-tempted to roll back over and pretend I wasn't sixteen and didn't have to go to school, but we all know how those episodes end.

            Slowly, I emerged from the mass of comforter and sheets that I was drowning in. Rubbing out my eyes, I realized that it was at least three minutes before Steven was going to wake up. Just as planned.

            This woke me up, and I hopped off my bed. Grabbing a random pair of clothes, I ran across the hall, snagging the bathroom just as Steven walked out of his door.

            He snapped out of his groggy state and started yelling.

            “Hey! Fishy, get out of there! I was going to take a shower!” Steven began pounding on the door, yelling more insults at me. It was a small pleasure, knowing I was irritating him. He took 1 hour and twenty-two minutes in the bathroom, as opposed to my 6.34 minutes.

            Yes, I had timed.

            I ignored him, examining my plain features. Not pretty. My hair was a limp blond. Not the white-blond, but a darker shade that couldn't decide between a rich gold and deep brown. So it chose the ugliest possible mix of the two. My eyes were a dull green that gave you de-ja-vu of what frosted flakes would look like after being thrown by a dog that’s also eaten eggs that morning. I rubbed them, in attempt to wake myself up more. I puckered my lips, but they were no fuller than a marker.

            I looked nothing like my parents.

My brother was the perfect mix of the two- my mother's Indian heritage and my father's deep build. What was I? The leftovers? The platypus of human kind?

            That seemed right.

            My skin had those frequent moments where it was a flushed red that come in dots, and a pale white for the background. But on good days, it was just the blue-white sickly color that made people wonder if I was deathly sick. I splashed water on my face, hoping it would wash away the pasty skin that never left me. I scratched at a piece of dry skin, a first for my usually oily skin.

            I sometimes wished I could be like the Aeropostale girls who always had the perfect sense of fashion that never failed, the perfect skin that never blemished, the hair that must have taken an hour and a greatly increased carbon footprint to make.

It had always made me wonder- What came first? Were they pretty because they were preppy, or were they preppy because they were pretty?

            But, the other part of me knew the curse of these seemingly perfect girls. They had an image to maintain. If they came into school everyday looking wonderful, assuming they had a delightful morning, then people would come to expect this of them. But if they were having a bad cramp, or maybe woke up late, possibly even a 'terrible' break-up with their 'future husband', then BAM!

            Everyone could tell.

            Not to mention that crazy list of people you had to keep track of, constantly texting, inviting over, making dinner-dates.

            I was the tomboy. A slight-outcast. And I didn't care.

            After finishing my business, I opened the door, sprinting before Steven could hit me. Making my way to the kitchen, I rifled through the cupboards, asking, “Do we have any Lucky Charms?”