I have a laugh that could charitably be described as “unique” and less charitably described as “kind of frightening.” I had a teacher in high school who told me that when I laughed I sounded like a woodland fairy on crack. It’s the kind of thing that people either love or really, really hate. There is no in between.

I have hair that curls in ways that don’t conform to any standard and stick out at angles that don’t make any sense. They frizz and they move and sometimes it feels like my hair is bigger then my head, like I’ve grown a mane, and I’m a lion ready to let loose and roar. I got a haircut just a couple days ago, but it still feels big. I like that little bit of wildness. 

I have a pair of pants that I trip over all the time because at 4’10 it’s hard to find pants that fit just right. My height has always been a sort of embarrassment for me. I work with high schoolers who are taller than me, which is weird but fine. Working with 12 year olds who are taller than me is a little bit more of a blow to my ego. I’m working on being ok with it. I’m working at being better at taking my pants to get hemmed.

I have eyelashes that one of my friends once described as “longer than a Steven King novel” which made me blush for days. They’re kind of blonde, and a little curly, and when I wear glasses they always fit my frames. I like them anyway.

 

I have three scars on my left knee from surgery I had more than two years ago. At this point I’ve given up hope on them ever fading and have mostly just gotten used to their presence. They’re called keloids, according to my mom, and sometimes when I’m antsy I trace their patterns on my skin. They don’t hurt, but they are a permanent reminder of where pain used to be. 

I have fingers that cramp up when I work to long, getting sucked in to stories and blog posts and editing photos. Eyes that stain from staring at my screen, working too long at the same things. It’s very very possible that this is happening right now. 

I have things about myself that I hardly ever notice. Tics and vocal inflections. The way I scrunch my nose or the way I stretch my back. The freckles on the nose. The way I click my tongue when I am trying my hardest to concentrate.

I’m cataloging myself. What I do. What I look like. How I behave. Who I am in this present moment. I’m taking it in and trying to be honest. To look at myself critically, but still with love.

I’m trying to notice more.