Sometimes, when I don’t have much else to think of, I think of kissing. Some days I just long to have someone that would press their lips to mine. It’s strange how special a kiss can make one feel. The physical description of it, “two lips touching,” hardly sounds special, but it is.
I get shivers when I think of the way boys have looked at me before a kiss. Soft eyes, taking me in as though I’m the only person in the room, in the world even. And there’s that moment before your lips meet, where you can just feel your heart. When it’s right, the feeling is not nervousness. It’s almost a longing. And a pain. Kisses are bittersweet. They last for a moment, and though you might look at each other in googly-eyed wonder that “they wanted to kiss me!“, the kiss is merely a small moment of your life. And if for some reason you miss the opportunity to kiss that other, you think about it for the next days afterwards. You wallow in regret. Why didn’t I just kiss him? What harm could have been done?
That short time during a good kiss– from when your lips first meet to when they part– that, I think, is the happiest moment one can experience.
It was in grade nine that I met the girl that I will likely always be jealous of.
We met playing volleyball and she became a close friend of mine over that year. If one were asked to describe either one of us, the description would be near-identical. At the time we looked very similar with tanned skin, an abundance of curls, and long, lanky limbs. We called ourselves “Mocha” and “Caramel” because my skin was slightly lighter than hers and we felt we needed nicknames (our other friend was “White Chocolate”).
I did not play volleyball after that one year but I heard from White Chocolate (what a ridiculous name) that Mocha had been asked to join the elite team and was their starting middle, the position we both competed for during that year we played together. I had her on Facebook and saw her become more and more beautiful…than me. I felt trapped behind her: not beginning to straighten my hair until a year after she began regularly straightening hers, suddenly becoming curvier than her, and she grew a few inches taller than I.
There were times that I’d look at her profile and just lament over my own looks and disappointment in myself. Why can’t I take photos like that? Why can’t I be as thin as her? as tall? How can I make my hair to be as long as hers? Should I have had a boyfriend because she has?
It got to the point where I had to hide her from my newsfeed or risk being miserable once a day.
I guess my question/point of this post is why do we feel the need to compare ourselves to others?
When I’m not thinking about Mocha, I really like myself. I’m proud of my curves, I don’t mind my face (though sometimes I worry that it’s a bit lopsided), and I really do like myself as a person. But as soon as she comes into the picture that all falls down. Isn’t it sad that I have to put measures in place to ensure I don’t get upset about not being her?
I suppose it’s a matter of confidence. I can be happy with myself, I just need to learn to not look at myself in relation to others, I think.
I’m not quite sure I like how personal this was, but it was on my mind as I just came across her profile once again.
My heart hurts.