Plastic bags and insecurity

So the beauty of having a blog that is only read by those closest to me is that I have the chance to experiment a little bit. I wrote this for fun last week, after looking through some Facebook albums and reminiscing. Here's a rough draft of a short essay, and I'd love any feedback (Mom, Cam, Madison...:)!

For high school graduation, my parents got me a cruise to Europe. Maybe it was more a convenient excuse to go on a family vacation, but it was presented as a gift.

While my family tasted wine in Italy and hiked through Santorini, I chose to debate bills in a mock legislature at the Conference on National Affairs in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was that kid in high school: getting into fiery debates over abortion with 18 year old "senators" > sunbathing in Spain.

While my siblings posted pictures of tapas to social media, I remember eating at a lot of buffets. I remember being in line at the buffet, scooping some combination of lard and fried meat onto my worn, plastic tray, and staring disconcertedly into the hazy, gray windows of the restaurant’s smoking section.

I remember sitting in a big, green rocking chair on the huge front porch of the YMCA and looking out at the wispy clouds hovering just barely atop the lush, green mountain tops. And I remember being incredibly content in doing so.

I remember my bill was on a plastic bag tax (which, hey, we now have in San Francisco! High five, 18-year-old Megan!). My brother and sister were treating their underaged selves to wine coolers on a cruise ship while I stood in front of a mirror attempting to find the best way to articulate my speech without gesticulating in a way that might distract from my all-important message.

I remember being 21st out of our 22 member delegation to read my speech to our California delegation. We were sitting at a round table, and it was getting painful to listen to yet another 5 minute speech illustrating why Suzie was the smartest 17 year old in the world and why her pretend bill would change our pretend America forever. Kids who spend their summer vacation setting up a mock senate tend to be pretty smart. And pretty brutal. My palms were sweating onto my gray dress pants (Banana Republic winter collection - you can’t be season appropriate when you don’t actually need business attire) as I listened to kid after kid be lambasted by our little group, our teammates who, in pretending to help, were really just asserting individual power and acumen in our feigned political arena.

What I remember most distinctly was not getting ripped apart. Dustin, our advisor who I now follow on Facebook and admire for his flamboyant, honest statuses,  gave me a compliment that at the time was what I thought to be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. He told me I had a JFK complex - it didn't really matter what I said, because I was attractive so people would listen to me anyway. I'm sure I blushed and stared directly at my crush, Max, to make sure he had heard that loud and clear.

I hadn't thought about this in years, but the other day I started laughing while reminiscing on this roundtable meeting. How insulting! There I was, 18 and hungry to change the world, and I was “attractive.” How funny that I had been honored to receive this compliment, without saying, "wait a minute, Dustin! What the hell did you think about my paper bag tax!?!? Aren't I brilliant for arguing that people should PAY for their bags at the grocery store!?!?" My bill failed in the first round, so apparently my attractiveness didn't extend far beyond the eyes of my gay male advisor -- I'm curious to see a photo of the San Francisco representative who made it happen in real government.

I reflected on this scenario, and this compliment, at a time when I'm yearning for validation. A validation entirely different from what satiated my 18 year old insecurities. Under the shell of a politics-loving, too-ambitious-for-sunbathing, holy-effing-hell-plastic-bags-are-the-devil teenager, I really wanted what most teenage girls want: to be told that I was pretty. It satisfied me, and to be honest I was too concerned with sneaking out to make out with Max to notice that my bill failed.  Now I'm 25 and feel insecure with my job and unhappy with the menial tasks assigned to me. My boyfriend tells me every day that I'm beautiful, but what I really want, more than anything else, is for him, my boss, for anyone to tell me how my brilliant mind is needed to change the world -- even if they’re just pretending.

(Photo is the view from the YMCA front porch)