Be yourself, misfits!
I’ve never considered myself either a tomboy, or a girly-girl. I never gave it much thought at all until I moved... to Utah!
It had never occurred to me that my wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans was anything other than average. But that was before I’d entered a new world - where girls wore ribbons in their hair and jewelry dangling from every available body part (even while playing Capture the Flag with the ward.) Where anyone with XX chromosomes gushed over babies, sighed over cutesy wall hangings, squealed and jumped around upon seeing a friend, and recoiled in horror from anything other than the sweetest of romance movies. During my first summer in Provo, my roommates and I went to see The Dark Knight. I swear to you, I am not making this up - they cowered in their seats the entire time and, upon returning to the apartment, immediately turned on the Enchanted DVD to “cheer themselves up.”
I felt vastly inferior and out of place. I was told how weird I was for having a “gross frog” as a pet. I was a “downer” for not wanting to dress as a Disney Princess for Halloween, like everyone had planned. For my birthday, my roommates offered to take me to the salon for a makeover. I politely declined, saying it wasn’t really my thing, and was met with frowns of confusion. (I got a similar reaction upon mentioning that I did not get my eyebrows professionally waxed, did not go tanning, and had never had a manicure.) I think I was the only girl in the ward with my natural hair color - and I felt bad for it. Everyone has different interests and tastes, of course, but this particular brand of femininity was so overwhelming, so ubiquitous and just everywhere, that I began to wonder if this was how I should dress, behave, be. Couldn’t I be just as beautiful and stylish as them?
I embarked upon a mission to try. I bought a whole new wardrobe and cut my hair in a trendy style. I attempted to emulate the makeup everyone else wore, and bought a slew of accessories I saw everyone carrying. But I felt uncomfortable in my new get-up; like I was wearing someone else’s clothes. I felt as if everyone could tell I wasn’t really like them, as if I was an imposter trying to be something I wasn’t.
I’d done the same thing in high school, though, going through various phases and styles in an attempt to “belong” somewhere, to fit in and be liked, accepted, valued. Eventually I’d given up and decided to wear exactly what I wanted. But where had that confidence and individuality gone? Was I giving it up without a fight, in the face of some bottle-blondes in stilettos?
One night, before a ward activity, I said “no more” and reached for my England soccer jersey instead of a ruched babydoll top. It didn’t go unnoticed; a roommate asked me what it was for, with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. But she wasn’t the only one. A young man approached me that evening, my shirt having caught his eye. Turns out soccer was only one of many things we had a lot in common. Ten months later, I married him in the temple.
It pays to be yourself!
It had never occurred to me that my wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans was anything other than average. But that was before I’d entered a new world - where girls wore ribbons in their hair and jewelry dangling from every available body part (even while playing Capture the Flag with the ward.) Where anyone with XX chromosomes gushed over babies, sighed over cutesy wall hangings, squealed and jumped around upon seeing a friend, and recoiled in horror from anything other than the sweetest of romance movies. During my first summer in Provo, my roommates and I went to see The Dark Knight. I swear to you, I am not making this up - they cowered in their seats the entire time and, upon returning to the apartment, immediately turned on the Enchanted DVD to “cheer themselves up.”
I felt vastly inferior and out of place. I was told how weird I was for having a “gross frog” as a pet. I was a “downer” for not wanting to dress as a Disney Princess for Halloween, like everyone had planned. For my birthday, my roommates offered to take me to the salon for a makeover. I politely declined, saying it wasn’t really my thing, and was met with frowns of confusion. (I got a similar reaction upon mentioning that I did not get my eyebrows professionally waxed, did not go tanning, and had never had a manicure.) I think I was the only girl in the ward with my natural hair color - and I felt bad for it. Everyone has different interests and tastes, of course, but this particular brand of femininity was so overwhelming, so ubiquitous and just everywhere, that I began to wonder if this was how I should dress, behave, be. Couldn’t I be just as beautiful and stylish as them?
I embarked upon a mission to try. I bought a whole new wardrobe and cut my hair in a trendy style. I attempted to emulate the makeup everyone else wore, and bought a slew of accessories I saw everyone carrying. But I felt uncomfortable in my new get-up; like I was wearing someone else’s clothes. I felt as if everyone could tell I wasn’t really like them, as if I was an imposter trying to be something I wasn’t.
I’d done the same thing in high school, though, going through various phases and styles in an attempt to “belong” somewhere, to fit in and be liked, accepted, valued. Eventually I’d given up and decided to wear exactly what I wanted. But where had that confidence and individuality gone? Was I giving it up without a fight, in the face of some bottle-blondes in stilettos?
One night, before a ward activity, I said “no more” and reached for my England soccer jersey instead of a ruched babydoll top. It didn’t go unnoticed; a roommate asked me what it was for, with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. But she wasn’t the only one. A young man approached me that evening, my shirt having caught his eye. Turns out soccer was only one of many things we had a lot in common. Ten months later, I married him in the temple.
It pays to be yourself!