34. One day it was my turn to be the model for our portrait painting class. So I sat there in front of everyone and stared at the chipping white paint on the window pane across the room. My face was naked because I’ve become lazy in the morning to put makeup on and at night to rub it off. But then I hear my professor say “Her skin is just beautiful.” This past summer and for my entire high school years, my acne was my top insecurity. Fair, it wasn’t near as bad as some other people’s but it was bad enough for my aunt to stare at it from different angles in the elevator and ask me if I was washing my face (which I was of course. Let me tell you that no one knows more about different facial scrubs than people with acne). My mother would also comment more than once, “Oh Wendy, you look so pretty today. If only you didn’t have so many pimples.” It was crushing to my little developing self esteem in the teen years to be the one with the nasty red marks clear across your chin or nose bridge, while all your other friends are smiling prettily for the camera. Maybe it’s the carefree environment, the cleansing air, or the farm fresh food of France, but recently my skin has been clear of any new blemish for the past few months though some scars still remain. It meant so much to me to hear that my skin wasn’t just acceptable or not horribly disfigured. No, someone thought that it was beautiful. It’s a powerful thing, that. Your worst insecurity considered by an outsider to be a mark of beauty, not shame. You kinda start to believe it too.
33. Someone is interested in buying my painting. Ah. Ah!