Plus, it always seemed like I was surrounded by pretty people.
You know the types who flutter around life with effortless grace, while all my round self could do was waddle.
Of course this twisted reality of teenage-dom has resulted in my inability to stop believing that anyone who has beautifully shiny hair, perfectly applied make-up and a flawless silhouette without the presence of Spanx has no problems in the world.
I think this is why I still watch The Real Housewives; I'm waiting for an announcement that all the drama isn't real.
So I nearly fainted recently when I tripped over a piece of information that severely bothered me when it should have actually soothed me:
Not everyone who portrays herself as such is perfect!
“Well duh!” you say.
But you see, I am the forgiving individual who will not question whether those freakishly large E-cup boobs on a size 4 frame are real or whether those lips that look suspiciously like dead animals are collagen injected.
However, when I walked in on one of the Mrs. Perfects that I know personally while she was changing, I saw a naked truth that destroyed my illusion.
Like me, she had thighs that touch, two stomachs and an extra set of elbows for boobs!
I used to idolize this woman.
I used to skip dessert and exercise with the hope that one day I would look like her, only to find out that she looks like me!
Now what am I supposed to do with this information?
Ella Roberts,
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