Before I get dressed, before I put in my contacts, before I do anything in the morning, really, I stand to the side in my mirror and fold up my drooping shirt to my chest and pray that the perfect body I imagine I have in my dreams, one with clear curves and smooth skin has become a reality. Instead, every morning I’m confronted with the same sight, my uneven hip dips and too-large thighs and untoned stomach becoming painfully clear in the mirror. The daily disappointment has become a ritual for me lately, a tradition as natural to me as getting annoyed at senior citizens during brunch with my parents after a particularly tedious church service or blasting 2013 pop songs with my best friend in her yellow punch buggie afterschool. Perfect curves and good proportions are something I have only in my fantasies: one I fall into too often during lectures on parent functions and their subsequent graphs. But like any fantasy, it comes to an end - I’m confronted with a daily reminder that I am completely, totally, and absolutely average in every way. It’s a term we as a society avoid using to describe people, but I’m pretty sure I fit the dictionary definition. 

Average-looking is being too insecure to post pictures with my pretty friends, but always being posted in theirs because I make them seem even prettier. My birthday posts consist entirely of unflattering candids, simply because there aren’t any in which I look above average. I’m described as “okay, I guess” by the boys I obsess over, and that’s when I’m lucky enough to be acknowledged. And on the off chance that they talk to me, they always avoid talking about my looks because we both knew it would only disappoint me. In eighth grade, the boy I liked for two months “rated” me a 5 out of 10 on Snapchat: and then started dating one of my closest (gorgeous) friends a week later. I went home and cried for hours, staining my “stylish” baby blue pillow case that I insisted my mom get me so I could fit in if my fancy gifted school friends ever came over. Only one friend even cared enough to remember that I liked him. 

Average is being the one whose name everyone forgets, the one whose presence isn’t coveted in the slightest. Always feeling just a little out of place amongst my friend group, as if I’m not necessarily wanted, just simply there. If I’m unable to attend plans nobody gripes at my absence, my friends really never going out of their way to make me feel missed. My personality is negligible, with no defining characteristics. I’m not the funny friend, the smart friend, or even the “mom” friend. I feel like a chameleon amongst my scattered friend group, changing to whatever fits the scene best. If you asked someone what was most standout about me they’d probably scratch their heads and laugh uncomfortably, refusing to directly say what we’re all thinking: my bland, average substitute of a personality makes them unable to recall any distinct memories of me or jokes so hilarious people doubled over with laughter, the kind where your sides start to hurt and your eyes squint so hard it’s like you can feel the laugh lines forming. 

Sometimes my ordinary nature dissipates into my subconscious and I forget, for blissful, fleeting moments, that I am the way I am. But when I’m alone, when I see the lack of alerts on my phone, when the makeup is wiped off and my smile with it too, I am struck with the oh-so-familiar yet painful reminder that my existence is simply a speck in the cosmos and I will hardly leave an imprint on this world when I inevitably disappear. But in a way it’s comforting, knowing that we all eventually cease to exist and become the dust making up the stars reflecting on future “average” kids as they stare into the sky wondering if there’s something better.