That Girl

“Who’s that girl” “I want to be her.”

You’ve seen her, or maybe you’ve been lucky enough to meet her. Maybe you are her, but probably not (no offense).

I saw her when I visited Duke’s Campus in 2015. She was talking to a young man on the grass while I sat on a bench, pretending to listen to the end of my tour. I zoned out and focused on her. Sunglasses perched on top of her messy ponytail (the perfect windblown ponytail; the one you have once in a blue moon after hastily pulling back your hair half-way through the day, except this girl has it every time).

She was stylish but not trying too hard. She was the kind of stylish where she could throw on jeans and an old t-shirt right before running out the door, not even looking in the mirror, and it would still work because her closet is a masterpiece. She laughed a lot, like she didn’t have a care in the world, and she had the straightest teeth (boy was I jealous… I still had braces at this point in my life). She was athletic, like she ran everyday (but she didn’t sweat that much when she did, nor look frazzled afterwards. Instead, she just adopted this glow and slicked back her hair into a wet ponytail—but it didn’t look gross and you could tell she wasn’t bald, a constant struggle for normal girls). She could keep up with the boys in a pickup soccer game, but she didn’t intimidate them with her athleticism—she wasn’t too strong, her muscles weren’t too big.

They just admired her. They’d definitely date her if they could, but she was so out of their league. She had a long-term boyfriend; an older boy. They were the talk of the town. Everybody knew these two. You’d see them walking to the library together, side-by-side, not even touching, but you could tell they’re in love. When they were at parties together everyone took pictures of them (especially if it was a themed party) and captions it: “parents.” If they broke up, it would make the morning news.

Speaking of parties, she never got too drunk; she NEVER embarrassed herself. She was great at beer pong (biiigg beer girl), but she could also take a few shots back like a champ. Nevertheless, she always kept her shit together. All her pictures from her nights out turned out flattering and fun (kind of blurry, but only enough to tell that the picture was candid and that she was the life of the party). If you got the chance to go to a party with her, she’d spend the first 30 minutes greeting people; she had a lot of friends. On her birthday, half the school posted on social media for her.

If she died, people would say she “lit up the room with her positivity and laughter. There wasn’t a single person who didn’t love her.” Let’s be real though, she’ll probably live forever. She’s going to look Jennifer-Aniston-hot at 50. “I want to be her,” I thought.

It’s 2018, and now I’m at Duke University. Maybe someone on a tour looked at me walking across the quad today and said, “I want to be her,” but I doubt it. I’m not her. No one is her. In reality, this girl was just like you and me. Maybe she did run every day, but she always ended her run panting).

She probably can’t keep up with “the boys,” but if she can, she’s definitely competitive and they’re definitely scared of her. In reality, she probably wasn’t completely happy with her outfit that day; her shirt had a stain on it and her lower back was sweaty from running around all day with a backpack on. She was laughing with the boy on the grass he told her a cheesy joke to make her feel better after an awful day. And her teeth aren’t perfect. One time she had a rough night and ended up chipping her tooth on the toilet seat, but she tells people it was from a jungle-gym accident as a kid if they notice. Obviously, she’s experienced getting a little too drunk – more than she’d like to admit. She’s always embarrassed the morning after. Her photo stream is full of unflattering angles and weird body contortions that she thought made her look hot at the time.

And what about that boyfriend? They broke up yesterday, but it wasn’t a surprise. They fought a lot. He got with someone else last night and she’s been a mess all morning. She wore sunglasses that day because her eyes were puffy from crying all night long. She does have a lot of friends, but she always thinks she could have more. She could be more likeable, more outgoing, but she’s not.

This girl isn’t even that girl. That girl doesn’t exist. She’s a myth.

But wait, that’s depressing. Let me rephrase. The idea of that girl is an impossible standard to hold oneself too, but in reality, do you actually want to be that girl? If you were that girl, you wouldn’t be real. You wouldn’t be you. That girl hasn’t experienced the heartbreak, disappointment, and anxiety that comes with overcoming life’s obstacles; each is necessary in crafting a strong woman out of a young girl.

You are this girl. The real girl behind the fiction I created was strong enough to go through the motions of the day and have a laugh, even when her heart was breaking inside. The real girl, you and me, is much more complex. She’s been through a lot and isn’t afraid to let others see her in a vulnerable state.

The real girl is beautiful.

I want to be her.

I am her.

By Arden Schraff

Duke Student, mental health activist and resident goddess making Insta casual.