late nights and loud fights
it's all just a blur

9:01 a.m. | 2005-12-25
Blame It On My Youth

I've learned in the past four days that life is not glamorous. Lest we cover ourselves in blind ambition, own pretty cars, or meet the loves of our lives -- we're all destined to live in the mid-west.

The area (for me) is sickening. It's the perfect combination of terrible weather, uneducated people, and a lack of care for scenery. The three things I hate most (plus smaller ones like bad food, increased obesity rates, and churches on every fucking corner) are all located in one geographically small area.

Then there are the relatives.

In a very Lauren-esque manner I romanticize them more and more. But as I gain years to my name I come to wonder how my mother doesn't hate them. I've been informed, in the past four days, that my hair color looks terrible on me, that I am not a size 16 (I count this up more than once because even though I'm the only non-diabetic there, and the only one who purchased and ate salads and can control my portions I got to be reminded plenty of times that I would never fit into a 16), my skin is too pale, my nose ring "atrocious" and my personal favorite: "Dumber than an 8 year old."

I'm not good enough for them, ever. My straight A's? (First ever in my life) "Oh, your cousin got those this year." Well congrats, and maybe I'm being selfish, but go me? Good job Lauren? I took IB in High School and I can guarantee you I knew more my senior year than my cousin will. I grew up with my father (a veritable walking encyclopedia) and didn't work a day in high school. He studies, sure, but that doesn't make him better than me.

I guess I'm just sick of being judged by people who I don't like and those who don't know me. I am amazing in my own right and they refuse to recognize that.

Oh, and they always do that thing, "is he related to..." in an effort to find some obscure links between themselves and the cable guy. Do you think he really cares that his uncle on his wife's side, once removed, gets his hair cut at the same barber shop as your late husband's cousin?

Probably not.

And neither do I.

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