Melbourne

There are some days, days that are far and few in between, where you wake up, and you feel that you're hot. You feel that you look good. Damn good.

You wake up, shuffle over to the bathroom mirror and blink, because today, for some reason, your early-morning reflection does not repulse you. Your hair, instead of messy, is sexily tousled. Your zits have shrunk, your skin looks smoother. Your belly looks smaller, what is usually fat is today nicely curvy. It is a strange thing, as you examine yourself in the mirror. You're hot.

So you shower and get dressed. You blow-dry your hair, which falls perfectly, the fringe is not wonky and you have no cowlicks or any flicked up ends. You choose a casual outfit, just a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, and somehow these simple items of clothing manage to accentuate whatever that looks good about your body today. The t-shirt falls flatteringly, the jeans make your legs look good. You pair the outfit with your favourite stud earrings, and flip-flops, which for once, doesn't look like you're wearing selipar jamban.

Your grab your bag, sling your headphones around your neck, and get ready to head out to class. One last check at the mirror. You're still hot. And you look cool!

So you leave your apartment building feeling rather good about yourself, and this transforms all your usual mannerisms. For one thing, you don't scurry to the lecture theater like you normally do. Instead, you stroll along languidly. You're practically sauntering. Self-confidence is oozing out of you, you feel like you could take on the world. If you have any crushes at the moment, you half-wish you would run into them. Because how could they resist you now? Your self-esteem has risen to the point where you feel you would have no problem looking them in the eye in giving them your best 'come-get-me' look, and they would definitely...well, come and get you.

And then, at this moment, when you are still high on this self-esteem pill and self-induced perceptions of hotness, that's exactly when a proper hot girl, a bona fide bombshell with gorgeous hair, fabulous figure and amazing dress sense will come sit beside you in the theater/get into the same lift/walk past, and that moment will have the same impact on your bubble of confidence as a pin on a blown up balloon, a small kid's finger on a soap bubble, or an alarm clock on a really good dream. All illusions/delusions/hallucinations of hotness are brought to an abrupt end, and once again, you are the slob in a ratty stretched out t-shirt and selipar jamban.

You sigh, groan inwardly, and want to curse the hot girl, but it's not her fault. The good God has blessed her outer appearance with features that fit conventional perceptions of beauty, being bitter about that would be petty and pointless. So you content yourself with sighing once more, perhaps emitting a rueful chuckle, and you wish that even if you won't ever look as good as the hot girl, you will someday manage to achieve the same sense of comfort within your own skin and self-confidence that you felt today, before the pretty girl had to ruin it all.