I suddenly think about all yearbook that I missed. I only have 2 yearbook from my educational years. One from High School, where only a blank page with my names and my address on it and a mistaken birth date. One from University years, where my name doesn’t even register in any department.
Blame it on me. I have no idea how other schools do their yearbook, but in mine, usually we asked to submit a picture. I always hesitant to submit my picture.
Back to my teenager life. I always think that I was not a pretty face. My hairdresser is my mom, who so-sorry was not so expert in hair cutting. She was also the only one who advise me on make-up, and again so-sorry was not working well in me. I was used to be a not-stylish, big hair, oily red face run from home to school and to another places for different activities. Most of my friend think I was better to be born as a boy. None ever approach me because I am attractive but because they need someone in their team. So, knowing that, I was used to the situation where I avoid the camera. When it’s time for everybody to pose, I would choose to be in the very back. I could tell that my pose never natural as I hate the camera so much!
What kind of picture I dared to submit for the yearbook? An ugly one that everybody will remember me that way? Surely not. I don’t take the chance and let the space blank. Better be mysterious. Haha.
After fifteen years and a school reunion, I realized an important thing.
Why I was so inferior about my look? Yet I was not and am not a pretty face, I have a clear light skin which most of the girls envy. Yet I was not slim like a model, or the one with stylish hair, I was not uglier than others. This is important feeling, isn’t it?
But maybe I can blame my childhood situation. Kind of my favorite topic.
I don’t really remember how I was brought up. But theoretically I might some of those unlucky children with a severe inferior complex caused of a particular environment. You know that children should be rewarded other than punished, should be encouraged other than critics.
I might not have those rewards and encouragement. I still can remember they way my mom saw me whenever she disapproved my behavior. I still can remember that I got lot of punishment and critics from people around me. While I was shy, my brother is so brave to try everything. Means that particular may only came to me, or the particular encouragement never came pass me. Poor me.
But, the yearbook story is another thousand years ago. Being not pretty is not what necessary to talk about now. The inferiority is something I need to work-on. Again.