The media tells me I am not a pretty woman. I do not have bleached blond hair, and although my eyes are blue, they are not blue enough. I am not so skinny that the wind could break me. My face has not been airbrushed to perfection, and even when the models have yet to be airbrushed I still cannot compare by the media standards. I am too tall, I stick out at funny angles, and my hair is like a boy’s. I don’t know how to carry out a conversation for too long, and I have a weird sense of humour. My nose is too big, and my smile doesn’t look right on camera, and I am terrible at putting makeup on. I am not a pretty woman by the media’s standards, and I will never be a pretty woman unless I buy this, or I buy that, or I buy every beauty product known to woman. My face is too round, and so is my stomach. My breasts are too big, but they’re not big enough.

Do not get me wrong, I am happy with my body. But the media tells me I am not a pretty woman, and that because of that, I have nothing to fear. Only pretty women are attacked at night by men that would like to abuse them, says the media. So why do I feel the need to walk faster, to stand a little taller, to make myself look like more of a guy? Why do I feel like fear is trying to swallow me whole as I walk home in the dark of the night, the cold air biting at my skin?

The media tells me I am not a pretty woman, and so I do not have anything to fear. But I know that whether or not I am pretty is not important, because no one looks at your face in the dark.