I assumed I would be yearned for. Practically every woman I saw on a screen or read about in a book always was. They were yearned after for their beauty, their mystique, their untouchableness. Not only an object of desire but of longing, aching, even — that's what I figured I'd be. That I'd stir up the animal impulses of men with something as simple as a look, or a tuck of hair behind my ear. That I'd inspire romance of the deepest, most disruptive, most consuming degree. Like it was my birthright.
High school taught me I'm no Helen of Troy. I'm no Cathy Earnshaw, either, and I'm certainly no Bella Swan. I'm "cute," I'm "funny," I'm "smart," but I'm not enough of anything to launch a man into the atmosphere where he'd spin the Earth backwards just for me. And to top it all off, somehow, contrary to the story I'd been sold, I was the one plagued with constant longing. I was the one with the cosmic, aching desire. I was the one with the grand romantic fantasies. But I couldn't muster enough charisma in a bat of my eyelashes to convert those feelings into real connections. I felt defeated by my lackluster feminine wiles. Until this year. |
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