Walls covered in extravagant posters, a velvet tufted headboard, ruffled dresses, and heart-shaped pillows permeate the small interior of my single. My dorm is not just where I live but also my safe space, a perfectly pink cavern I can retreat to when the world around me becomes too overwhelming. My dorm is a reflection of my outer self, a carefully curated vision of pink whimsy, all in the means of self-expression.
What happens then, when the imperfections of life itself manifest not only in my physical appearance but inside my safe haven? My pimples are patches of crumbs stuck in my carpet. My stretch marks the crumpled bedsheets under my duvet. The undyed roots of my hair are twisting electrical cords hastily plugged into a surge protector. My body as a whole is the piling clothes: remnants of my effort to put together an “acceptable” outfit. I thrive off of perfection and do everything I can to ensure my appearance and space are to my unyielding standards. My dorm has become synonymous with my body. If my bed is made, my hair isn’t greasy. If there is enough space to work at my desk, then I am not too large. If I remove all trace of food having been in my dorm, it’s as if I never dared to eat at all. And yet there is always something wrong, both with my space and my appearance. I am as inadequate in curating a perfect impression as I am at keeping my dorm clean. In a way, these are my efforts to present an utterly idealized version of myself.
As a person who is so committed to self-expression, I find it hypocritical that I am so concerned with hiding the facets of my being that I don’t see as desirable compared to others. I say I want nothing more than to be my authentic self at all hours of the day, but what I truly want is to be a perfect version of my real self. Perhaps my inability to keep a clean dorm reflects my inability to get rid of the features that I am not happy with. How can I simultaneously expect my dorm to be perfect while also being an exact representation of my inner and outer self? I constantly clean my mess to hide the fact that it was ever there in the first place, the same way I tilt my head down to conceal my double chin in photos or wear sleeves to cover my arms, the same way I fumble with my bangs to cover my forehead acne or wax my eyebrows to eliminate my natural unibrow. All of these actions are feeble, as hair will always grow no matter how much I cut it. For as long as I live, my body will not disappear even when covered under layers of clothing, and my mess will always return, an ineffable signal that, no matter how much I hide it behind a sparkling facade, I am a living, breathing, imperfect human. And in a way, I begrudgingly accept that as beautiful.
