NEWSFLASH: Nothing changes.
At school, I was never a popular person. I liked books so I was a boff, and I liked chocolate so I was fat, and I hung around with people who were into different things which weren't "popular" so we weren't popular, and I had a very unfortunate overbite from being a thumb-sucker so I had a year of brace incarceration, and I am short-sighted so I had multiple pairs of unattractive specs, and I was very overconfident so I was too loud. It was only during the summer of 2006 when I suddenly got hips, boobs and contact lenses (as well as becoming best friends with the Head Girl and hanging out in the local park) that people suddenly noticed that I was "cool". This popularity contest could only be won by who you knew and the way you looked, I thought to myself.
For years this affected my self image. I had to get my boobs out, and keep my hair blonde, and know everybody, and make sure people were always talking about which boys I was seeing, otherwise nobody would think I was cool any more. All I would do was listen to underground music and slather on eyeliner until my eyes were tiny slits of black, telling all my friends about the new band who were "definitely going to make it, they're so talented", drink Frosty Jacks at parties and throw up everywhere, smoke and tell my parents that I didn't, take party drugs and pretend they didn't scare me, and make some serious romantic mistakes.
I'm not really sure when all this changed. I'm pretty sure it was when I met my boyfriend and realised that I could be loved for being somebody that I really was. Then I started at a new university and, aside from being my usual boisterous self to start, I settled into friendships which have lasted. My current friendships with people at home have strengthened in some cases, and weakened in others, but I have absolutely no regrets about the decisions and choices I have made since September 2010.
But I digress. Suddenly it dawns on me that popularity is no longer about who you pretend to be and who you talk to; it really is about who you are. I would love for 16 year old Me to see 22 year old Me. See the people I hang out with, the fun I have, even the pure amount of people who will happily stop and talk to me on campus and actually care about how my day is going. 16 year old Me would giggle coquettishly at the boys I now have serious conversations with, and she'd pick the worst clothes in the nicest shops on pay day, and God forbid that she'd ever run out of eyeliner.
I think my point is this; 16 year old Me, keep on doing what you were doing. Because it turns out that having a brain and being sensible with a little bit of recklessness here and there will help you to muddle through. And 22 year old You is actually incredibly, indescribably happy with her life.
16 year old Pickle, with best friend Nola.
22 year old Pickle with best friends Tess and Nik.
Background Blog: A little tribute to 16 year old Me.
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