Fresh

Than Me

Prettier, smarter, funnier, braver, more athletic, more artistic...

There are people who simply are just more than I am.

She wears her clothes like she wears her smile, confidently. The narrow of her nose is perfectly sized. She turns heads her way, however I turn heads too... the opposite way. Her skin from head to toe glows just like her eyes. I tried to see if mine glowed too, but I saw only dullness. Her face is clearer than mine, figure curvy than mine, teeth straighter than mine. She is pretty, I am not.

She knows every answer, even every question. Her mind works as intricately as spider webs. She absorbs information like a sponge. While I'm struggling to write the date, she's already handing in her test-- a test on which she knows she wrote all the right answers. Her grades are better than mine, IQ higher than mine, thoughts sharper than mine. She is smart, I am not.

I watch as he has the entire crowd laughing. How does he do it? He delivers the punchline easier than a baby. They actually laugh with him, whereas with me, I am laughed at. His quick wit and humor serves him well. His jokes are better than mine, voice louder than mine, humor fresher than mine. He is funny, I am not.

"Cmon," she says daringly. I stare at my shoes and rethink every horrible possibility that could occur within the next few moments. Her face is illuminated by the dim flashlight. She tells me to hold the light still , I'm shaking too much. My knees knob and buckle. I want out. She always is pulling stunts like this, it's in her nature, she laughs in the face of fear. Her faith is stronger than mine, teeth less chattery than mine, eyes more determined than mine. She is brave, I am not.

I watch as he runs down the track. It seems effortless-- almost too easy, but I know the second I start moving faster than a slug on the pavement in the middle of July, I'll break out sweating, and my legs will ache and burn. He plays sports (and I will say I do too... when the Olympics approve my petition to make channel surfing and internet surfing an event). I want to be athletic. I've tried, but I seem to have no coordination between any two functions of my body-- it's as though every part wants to work on its own. His speed is faster than mine, body fitter than mine, endurance miles longer than mine. He is athletic, I am not.

She swirls the paintbrush effortlessly as she hums a short tune. I watch from across the room. While she swirls variated colors across the vanilla surface, my own face is caked green with envy. As I look down at my own sketchpad, I see scrawled scribbles that even primitive humans would not be able to interpret. I sigh and continue to watch as she works. Her creativity is greater than mine, skill finer than mine, imagination wider than mine. She is artistic I am not.

I surround myself with these people in hopes of catching a speck of their talents, a drop of their gift that could scrub away my uselessness, cleanse my being of its impotence, wash away the potent stench of utter failure. I treat each person like a mirror. I steal glances, and try to see bits and pieces of myself in them.

As much as I tell myself that these things don't matter, I can't help but want to be more like them. They are all I want to ever be. I want to feel pretty, I want to be smart, I want to brave, I want to be athletic, I want to be artistic. I want, I want, I want! So that maybe... just maybe, I'll be accepted. Not by my peers, my family, or society, but by me.