I'm going to go with the awkward eighth grade mug shot that is my life story.
So, I have a cheesy grin, really big, and bucky, gapped teeth (that I'm still getting used to, but totally accept as a part of my personality now. My body has a lot of little mistakes like that, but their gifts).
My hair was cute so unbearably short that I cried when the lady showed me the circular mirror before spinning around for the full look. I like to call it my "boy years." My mom felt so terrible that she told me we'd go to Target and buy some "cute pink clips" to make me feel more "girly." If that doesn't prove how girls are socialized in America nothing will. And too bad this was before the love child of Jolie-Pitt, Shiloh, who is now rockin' a very sporty tomboy pixie cut. Even if it is a boy cut, pixie still works because Tinkerbell was a total badass with her pixie dust powers and green mini-dress. Plus, she was best friends with a boy who used a sword on Captain Hook and his gator. She's the good AND bad angel on your shoulder. Need I argue anymore?
Mine, wasn't a pixie cut. It had that mom soccor cut mixed with a boy-second grade bowl cut.
But, the thing that really saved this fourteen year old picture was the shirt I decided to wear for picture day. I've always been really into my Catholicism, but sometimes I take it far beyond the norm. I wore my "Mary is my homegirl" too-small-on-my-shoulders t-shirt and hunched in the picture to purposely not show off my swimmers athletic body. I was ripped in eighth grade. I had better abs then the quarterback of the Florida football team, aka Tim Tebow. And obviously, I expected to grow up and be a nun and live in a small cave in the middle of nowhere.
Needless to say, this was my boy, heavy-duty-weight-lifting woman years.
I did NOT, luckilly, have any acne because the chlorine dried out my already pale skin and so I was just plain ghostly, with a green tint to my straightened hair. As you may notice, I now let my hair do it's lion mane thang, but back then every morning I made my mom blow dry and straighten my hair on our downstairs bathroom toilet.
For being such an awkward teen, I still managed to come out with a self-loving personality and now maintain a very shallow idea of myself. So, thank you eighth grade awkward years for giving me empathy for those awkward like myself, but also still improving my self-image by letting me accept the possible boy, man-arms, man-abs, and big hair that I still have as an adult.