taking inventory

I hate insecurity.

I hate sitting in the library, across the room from two tables of girls I consider to be more beautiful than myself, and wondering how one can possibly be so beautiful while at work in the library. I hate watching a soccer game with a group of girls and thinking, “They probably wonder why I’m here.” I know the guys probably appreciate everyone’s support but mine, or at least that’s how I feel. I hate hearing them whisper and assuming it’s about me.

I hate having my conversations interrupted by, “Excuse me, but do you realize that you blink a lot?” Yes, I know. I know because some creep just winked back at me. I know because I feel my face moving. I know because it is a flaw, and I am well aware of those.

I hate being asked, “So where are you planning to go to college?” Or, “Do your parents let you drink coffee?” Here’s my favorite, “No, I don’t need to see your ID to board the plane -- only people over eighteen.” I know I look young. No amount of makeup can make me look older, no amount of hairspray, no stilettos, nothing. I know I look fifteen. Thanks for reminding me, and I really appreciate you laughing at me when I tell you my age. Maybe when I’m thirty I’ll finally look twenty-two.

I hate being clumsy. I hate that I have to be reminded not to trip over the step that’s been there my whole life. I hate losing my balance while standing perfectly still. I especially hate it when you bring up that story about me falling off the bleachers at the basketball game -- while sitting down. I hate that I’m socially uncoordinated, and I hate when you blame that on home-education. I went to public school for three years, and I was awkward there, too. I’ve been like this my whole life, thank you very much.

I hate my disproportionate body. I hate it when guys stare while I walk away or “accidentally” bump into me in the cafeteria line four times. I hate that every time a gentleman allows me to go in front of him, I secretly wonder if it’s just so he can ogle my backside. I hate that I can’t wear dresses because they fit me like spandex at the bottom and a paper sack up top. I hate it when you tell me my hips will be great for childbirth.

I hate my past. I hate the sin that gripped me for so long and still tries to crawl around behind me like a half-dead corpse. I hate seeing my ex-boyfriend (the only one) in the cafeteria every day. I hate that he was followed by a succession of hopeful yet less-than-worthy young suitors. I hate being flirted with by random guys in department stores and restaurants and other public places. I hate that no Godly, respectable young man has ever pursued me. I hate that the one thing I want more than anything else is to be a wife, and I can’t see that happening anytime soon.

Out of all these things, do you know what I hate the most? I hate that it matters.

I know that Jesus loves me. I know that He died for me so that I can know God, so that none of this will matter. I hate that I can’t let that be enough.

I hate it when you call me talented and confident. I hate that I can’t let you see my imperfection.

I hate that you think you’re the only one.