Viewer Discretion is Advised

I have zits, the occasional cold sore, smelly feet, and I sweat a lot.  That's gross, huh?

I have thoughts about my weight comparing thighs and arms to other women. That's gross, huh?

I think about my personality being too much for people, and wishing I could be the cute mysterious art major girl in the back of the class room, who has a dark clothes to match my personality.  And I wear cool retro band t-shirts, and I "forget" to wash all my eye makeup off, because that's so grunge. All because I want people to see me with more depth.  That's gross, huh? (and slightly too specific)


Today,  I woke up with a cold sore.  It's not a big deal, but on top of only three hours of sleep, and a very full day ahead of me, I wasn't looking forward to the stares.  (which is funny, because people don't really care.  They think, "glad it's not me", and move on with their life).  Anyway, as pathetic as it was, I tried everything.  I wore lipstick that looked like Barbie's Fairytopia dress.  That lasted about two minutes, before my friend (who I am very grateful for), said ever so sweetly, "nah".  I started smiling an obscene amount, because if I stretched my lips it was harder to noticed. I was overwhelmed with this. This minor imperfection.  So small and temporary.  It's not me.  None of this was-- the energy put into my appearance or even the imperfection itself.


Anyway, this blog isn't about my cold sore, though, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing I wrote about.  Really it's the message behind it.  I spent a whole day feeling gross, and even referring to myself as a "piece of peperoni pizza" to my sister.

I thought about how deeply concerned we are with making sure every small imperfection is hidden.  Just the gross subtle and small things.  The big messes in our life?  Those are fine to talk about, because they are stages in our lives, a mere event. A broken arm?  Put a cast on it and have people sign it.  Stitches?  Pull the Spider-Man band-aide off and brag about the story. But the small stuff?  The daily things?  The flaws in our personalities and the demons on our shoulders.  Our subtle insecurities.  Zits? Cover them up, that's embarrassing. Balding? Plugs and toupees.  Cold sores, look like a over zealous Barbie clown.  (okay, that one might just be me).

But do you get it? How people try to hide their small imperfections.

Any way, I was thinking about how comparison is the thief of joy.  And that's been my statement this school year.  I dwell on it.  Oh,  I could could personify "comparison" in very colorful language, but I'll refrain.  However, it really is a thief of joy.  It's so cowardly.  It's so manipulative.  It takes so much from you.  And the worst part-- it does so, but only with your permission.  Comparison only has the power you allow it.

After a good cry with my best friend about how I felt tired and ugly, she encouraged me, and we watched "New Girl" and said goodnight.

I looked in the mirror and I saw this.  (I'm going to regret this later). Well, there you go.  No makeup, no Barbie lipstick, no cute clothes to distract, or fancy jewelry, or filter.  (#nofilter).  Just me.  Basking in all that I am.  A freshman in college with a  night dress on and goofy socks who hasn't brushed her hair.  And zits.  And a cold sore.

 After I had said goodnight to my friend, I walked over to the mirror and started crying.  I felt Jesus hold me and I leaned back into Him.  He said, "look again".  I did, and instead of my blistering lip or couple of minor imperfections, I saw my eyes.  I didn't see me, but I saw art.  His art.  A person. Not me. But a person that God created.  I saw His time and love and purpose and I thought, "Chloe, you're a moron.  I mean, c'mon! You are so beautiful.  I MEAN SO HOT!! AMIRITE?? LIKE, I WOULD SO DATE ME." Okay, not really. But I felt like I saw myself the way He sees me.

I want to be vulnerable, and not in an "teenage angsty" way, but in a "I am human, too" kind of way.  Sometimes, the best way to share God's love is to be real.  And this blog is what I have.  So, I'll use it. Anyway, I don't have a great way to end this, being so last minute.  So I'll end with this:  comparison in the thief of joy.