Where do I fit in? Oh, oh wait, I’m supposed to “stand out”. Being a girl who is over six feet tall, this hasn’t been a hard battle for me to win since I stand out whenever I stand up! I am, however, learning that “self” is the dictator of the caliber of attention one receives. My style says, “She’s the homie” and locks me in the infamous padded room call the friend zone. How do I find my way out without being called sexy? Yes, sexy. I hate that term. It’s like you’re telling me that I only look good enough to have sex with. I am more than what meets the eye! I have plenty of women tell me that they love my style and that I am even beautiful; I absolutely appreciate and reciprocate all compliments, but what about the male species? Is this the universe telling me I should be a lesbian?
Somewhere along the ride, the lines got blurred between girly-girl and tomboy. I am a hybrid which confuses the opposite sex none the less. I went from wanting to be Alicia Silverstone in Clueless to shopping in the men’s section. There are many contributors to this transition including, but not limited to, my weight gain that caused my self-esteem to plummet. Now that I have dropped the pounds, my quest now is to find the happy median. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t fat Mila anymore until I tried on a swimsuit while working my part-time retail job and let my coworker see. Her reaction was, “Wow, I didn’t realize all of that was under all of those clothes. You never show off your figure!” What? I have a figure? I have been a slave to layers, please, set me free!
Do I have to trade in my crew necks and combat boots for spandex dresses and sky-high heels? Some girls would squeal at the thought of wearing shoes that don’t have at least a five inch heel out on the town, but I’m on the polar opposite end of the spectrum. I’m almost certain that my style and demeanor are what gives an eighteen year old guy the gusto to kick game to me. I don’t see this as a bad thing, however, I’m not sure about the message that I’m sending. The jury is still out on whether or not I want to be Stella and announce the need to get my groove back. I’m seriously drowning in a pool of confusion; someone throw me the magic lifesaver that contains the serum that swoons men! I guess I can start with peeling off some of these layers.
Here are some picture chronicles that depict why I consider myself to be a hybrid: