The Rise and Fall of Pretty
Flushed with the excitement of new love and the rapture of a beautiful spring day, I emerged from my walk-in closet, hair impeccably set, body wrapped entirely in vintage, and declared that I needed my picture taken-- this was the best I was going to look for the rest of my life. I was 22, in the throws of the most passionate love affair of my life, living in the most beautiful space in my life, and I knew then, for a fleeting moment, I had peaked. A few years before this closet epiphany, during my first year away from home, I remember standing in my dorm bedroom listening to my roommates speak in hushed tones about someone, saying: "she's like really pretty and she, like, doesn't even realize it." When they cut their conversation short as I entered the room, I realized they'd been talking about me. This was the first moment in my adult life another woman had called me-- not my hair, not my clothes-- pretty. Step back to fifth grade,
