I’m not that girl who always has her eyebrows perfectly plucked. I try standing in front of a mirror for hours attempting to pull every last determined and stubborn hair. I really do. But my eyes start watering and my tweezers are the cheap kind you buy from a corner store for less than a dollar and after an hour or so I can barely lift my arms. They’re bound to be uneven and I’ll just find another wild hair a day or two later and my bangs hide the left one (thankfully) anyway.
I’m not that girl who pays her bills on time. I can’t remember which ones are automatically deducted and which ones I have to call in and which ones will only take a check in the mail. I lose track of days or try to stretch dwindling funds in my bank account over weekends and, honestly, I secretly crave the adrenaline rush that hits when I need to make a payment by 5:00 and it’s 4:45. I can’t afford to go skydiving but I can afford this.
I’m not that girl who wishes for white picket fences. Beautifully placed lawn ornaments and a treasured swing tied to the front tree and two barking dogs excited to welcome me home has never sounded ideal. Weekly calendars and consistent to-do lists and monthly homeowner meetings fill me with dread where a sense of accomplishment should be. When things are positioned perfectly and cleaned exquisitely and sparkling just right, I get nervous.
I’m not that girl who’s always put together. I will say the right things at the wrong time or the wrong things at the right time or nothing at all when I should be saying all the things all the time. I won’t always drink too much but when I do I will be a mess. I won’t always cry but when I do it will be hard for me to stop. I won’t always remember to show up but when I do I’ll probably be a few minutes to half an hour late. When eating dinner on a first date I will likely spill on the shirt I spent an hour and a half picking out. I’ll laugh and call myself a klutz and consider it a fair warning.
I’m not that girl who knows the simple rules. I will clean up tomato juice with a hand towel and put sharp knives in the dishwasher and wash cold glasses in scorching water. I’ll try and fight oil fires with water and I won’t know that cold water actually boils faster and that the middle rack in the oven is for baking, not broiling. I’ll overshare too early and tell the truth during a job interview and constantly wonder how I missed the handbook to life everyone else seems to have read cover to cover.
No, I’m not that girl.
I’m that girl who knows the top three NFL quarterbacks’ passer ratings, completion percentages, and alma maters. I’m that girl who knows that Ernest Hemingway preferred to write while standing up and met J.D. Salinger during World War II and had three members of his immediate family commit suicide. I’m that girl who wears two different colored socks and regularly misses a button on her cardigan and prefers to have her hair pulled instead of softly twirled. I’m that girl who forgets birthdays but not a deadline and can’t see the floorboard of her car but keeps her inbox perfectly organized and would rather buy new underwear instead of do her laundry.
I’m that girl who’s opinionated but open minded and stubborn but laid back and fierce but quietly breaking. I’m that girl with a spinning head and a wild mind and a hunger that is never fully satisfied.
I’m that girl who still hasn’t figured out what kind of girl she really is.
I hope I never do.