Smart Girl First

I wasn’t always this hot. I had to surgically engineer it which required saving a good deal of money while waiting tables for a few years. Then the transformation began. And my job prospects improved. I went from making $2.13 per hour at Park Avalon restaurant, a place where the Richies and the Famously-s dine to making a couple grand an hour at Scores, the strip club where the Richies and Famously-s go to find a girlfriend.

Once I began my physical and economic transformation, my emotional one took the same trajectory. I no longer felt bound by the constraints imposed by my “conservative” parents who said one thing and did another entirely. I no longer felt like I had to immerse myself in satisfying others’ expectations of me. I just did what I wanted. Because I finally had the fear recess enough to do so.

I traveled. I was dating a very famous basketball player. I took art lessons at a famous studio in town that I had always looked in from the outside at and benefited from fantastic instruction from painters who were already world renowned. I ate in cafes daily. I became a espresso drinker. I was a fixture at Fashion Week. In short, I was living the life I had always wanted to live.

And it wasn’t my liberal arts degree that got me there.

It was my steely determination to engineer my own launch from the cocoon. I was a smart girl first and a pretty girl second. I was also quite focused.

So things began to unfurl.

But when I would return home to my small town in Podunk, U.S., I would have all of the critics of my childhood return en masse to launch their arrows upon me. Folks who had an easy launch out of the cocoon as they were entitled, had rich boyfriends practically in utero, could hold a conversation with another human being without feeling so incredibly undone that they had to hibernate for a week in their bedrooms.

I wasn’t always this hot

People like my cousin.

She was the popular sort. The sort that always managed to get what she wanted. The sort that needed to be the center of attention.

I was the one who was thrust out there to tap dance for others (literally) and hated every minute of it.

She was the type who actually enjoyed the good old fashioned Show Boat.

So when I returned home thinner, hotter, and stunningly more empowered than she, what was she to do but remind me of it? That was her job, after all. One must remain the center of attention.

Being one to never mince words (it runs in the family), el cous’ took the opportunity to staunchly announce,

“Just cuz you got a boob job doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else.”

Like that had actually crossed my mind. I don’t think myself better than anyone, in fact, it is quite the opposite and has been for the duration of my life. I spent a lot of years thinking myself quite insane and destined for institutionalization.

So to hear this coming from someone so accustomed to the spotlight, I was quite taken aback.

For reasons, you may not understand.

I was taken aback because I knew that what I was doing… This self engineered transformation… Was working.

My cousin hated me for the first time in my life. She never bothered to concern herself with my lifestyle before. I was just the “nerd.” The one who couldn’t get a date to the prom.

And now I was hotter than her. And I was in a big enough city to profit from it.

I had similar reactions from other “peers” from the days of yore, most of whom didn’t recognize me after I consider my most personal work of art (myself) to be road worthy. These women just itched to tell me how mad I made them.

And I laughed and laughed.

I was the same person inside, just a little less fearful. I was finally in a position to dismiss it all, understanding, of course, that my focus and ambition were the things that were catapulting me out of Podunk, U.S. and onto a stage I didn’t quite comprehend because it was just so stinkin’ beautiful.

And I thank all those ladies for their input. Their, however indirect, accolades. They have kept me spiraling toward further development of what I know I am capable of…

True feminine fearlessness. Even if it’s funded by the pole.

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