In the photograph, I’m smiling, but my memories from that day were far from happy.
“Nice dimples,” he commented as he examined the picture in his camera. I was tired of living, tired of being a model, tired of not being myself. I would stand in front of the professional white background, posing. And they shoot me until they were satisfied with the picture. Yeah, it felt great to see myself in magazines, but I wasn’t myself. I was tired of going on diets almost every day and putting makeup all over my face. It was 10 p.m at night and I had been standing in front of the camera. Yes, the company paid me the money I deserved but that day’s photo-taking session caused me to catch the flu. It sucked. They had to do a splashing water effect on me using cold water. Adding on to the load, I was wearing an edgy tube which revealed my cleavage and denim shorts.
“Ha-choo!” I sneezed as I grabbed a towel and jumped into the tub of hot water. Frustrated, I cleared my mucus for the last night before picking up my phone. Clicking on Spotify, I set it on auto-play mode. This was a great night to chill while listening to music.
“Don’t feel like putting makeup on my cheeks, do what I wanna,” the song—Perfect to Me by Anne Marie player. My eyes lit—literally, this song suited the situation I was in. Everyone in the world admired me for my thin and petite figure, some idolised me, some praised me for my defined, beautiful and sharp features. Yeah, it felt great to be looked up to, but it wasn’t easy. It was as if you can’t make any mistakes, you had to be perfect.
“I’m not a supermodel from a magazine. I’m okay with more being perfect, cuz that’s perfect to me,” I sang along passionately. Hearing my stomach rumbling, I mumbled to myself, “ Yes, I’m going to love and be myself.”
Taking a deep breath, I strolled out of the washroom with my towel around my neck. Grabbing a cookie from the pantry, I munched on it contentedly. I felt the happiness which I never ever felt before for a very long time.
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