Because This Week Warrants Something Completely Self-Centered

So sometime back, while conducting interviews in the heartlands where people buy flats, I ran into an acquaintance from primary school. The acquaintance and I (let's call her Apu) were not particularly well-acquainted, just classmates across a crowded classroom. So when she saw me and did a double-take, I had no idea what was going on.

"Remember me?" Apu said, approaching me with her boyfriend in tow, hanging on to her arm. "We were in Primary school together. I'm Apu!"

"Oh right! Apu! Hi!" My eyes saw the housing form she was clutching in the other hand. "Did you guys just get a flat?"

"Yeah!" she yipped.

"Congratulations! Are you getting married then?"

"Yeah." Her hand closed more tightly around his. "I'm a kindergarten teacher now." Then, as if she was determined to make a comparison, Apu's eyes wandered over my conspicuous lack of an engagement ring. "What about you? Got anyone in your life? Getting married soon?"

"Umm. No." I waved my notebook at her for emphasis. "I'm just working now."

"Oh," she sniffed, and immediately I knew that I had fallen dramatically in her esteem. Apu was what Helen Fielding would call a "smug married", or a "smug almost married" anyway. And then the kicker: "You haven't changed at all!"

I nearly choked. I knew this girl all through my formative years, when I was a thick, plastic-framed spectacle wearing, braces baring nerd. I was skinny in all the wrong places with straggly limbs and something of a space cadet. I spat and climbed trees and ate mud (don't ask) and wore clothes that didn't match, including my brother's jeans and huge, clunky black boots that wouldn't have looks out of place on a construction site. A cross between poverty and rebellion towards anything too trendy meant I carried a huge cloth bag from the National Library that screamed "I Love Reading" on the front and combined with the boy-hair I sported, no one would give me a second look. Beck and Sera can also testify to the fact that I was clueless about fashion, pop culture and pretty much anything teen-related apart from angst.

So considering that I now hold a steady job, no longer wear braces and tote bags that are a couple of steps up from free gifts, I imagine I look a little different. At least.

Over lunch with my colleagues I told Mav and Jay about the little run-in I had with Apu and they nearly snorted laughing their heads off. "Hey!" I protested, "Do you know how frustrating it is to have someone say you look exactly the same when you've been trying to get cooler all these years?"

"Actually, maybe if you did something to your hair - " Mav giggled with good-intentions. "Or the glasses -," Jay chimed in, unable to keep from tittering behind her hand.

"Oh, wow, thanks. Just stop right there dude," I blustered.

"No seriously, all you need is your "I Love Reading" bag - " Mav teased, always handy with a few bon mots for me.

My glare only made them giggle further. Unconvinced, I sought M out. She pressed her lips together in the way she does when she's trying to keep from laughing, even though her nostrils quivered suspiciously. "Um. Well, I have told you about the glasses -" she began and I threw my hands up.

GAH. I give up. It's not that I haven't tried. When I left secondary school and started meeting boys in Junior College, I tried to be cooler even though my mother stopped me from hemming my skirt by a couple of inches. I lost the braces, joined a band, carried a backpack like the rest of the kids and was introduced to the joys of the safety razor. In university, M's horror at my brother's jeans, which she referred to as my "fat pants", led to a massive overhaul of my closet into things like stonewashed bootcuts, fitted slogan t-shirts and the occasional skirt. I started attending concerts, swearing and even went through a period of time where I wore contact lenses day in and day out (the fact that I've even used "attending" in this sentence is testament to my inability to be "with it").

And now, at almost 24, looking back on the 10 to 16 phase during which I was a positively heinous little brat, I feel like I have made some progress. I'm a lot less pious than I used to be and while I used to balk at the idea of things like abortion and questioning my sexuality, I now never say never. I'd like to think I'm a lot less judgemental (though I assure you, I'm still a lot more judgemental than I strive to be) and not quite the snot who once rolled my eyes at people who watched Chinese drama serials.

I can walk down most streets without tripping, never (okay, seldom) pick food up off the floor and holy jumping catfish, Batman, most of my clothes match!

I actually listen to all kinds of music without condeming it as demonic (as Beck once said: "I never thought I'd see the day that you stood front row at a heavy metal concert and enjoyed it.") and I drink alcholic fluids without flinching. M's approval of my wardrobe has increased tenfold and on a good day, I can feel relatively cute.

One big step for me, however, goes mostly unnoticed by the rest of mankind. Dodo still laughs at me for being a nerd and when I meet up with my friends, I watch them in their svelte, belted dresses, pin-thin stiletto heels and upswept hair and still feel like a farmer's daughter in my ragged pants and converse. Everything came to a head when I cornered my brother in the kitchen one day and demanded to know if I was cool.

"Jie..." he hesitated, clearly trying his hand at oft-unused tact, "You're...um... very cool, in a kinda Gilmore Girls way." MEH. BEH. FEH.

FINE. I suppose the truth is that while I'm a lot more graceful and feminine than I used to be, I'll never actually be as groomed or elegant as the other girls. I'm always going to like writing things down all the time and prefer wearing glasses to lenses. Talking to myself is something that's become a deep-seated habit and I never will learn to stop bursting out in random song or smile on the train or bus. I'm always going to be noisy and as D will know, I will snort when I laugh with the best of them.

And as much as I want to be one of those gauzy, graceful butterflies in River Island and french manicures, I'm only ever going to feel like I'm playing dress up, even if I've become better at faking it over time.

But really, what's so bad about that? My family and friends will always love me for who I am - my antics would have weeded out the would-be poseurs by now - and they're always going to tell me I'm cool "in my own way". They're honest enough to tell me what they think of me, and still stand by me for it.

I've been lucky enough to be surrounded by sincere people who have maintained long-lived relationships with me, even from back when I was awkward and uncouth and frankly, since they were awkward and uncouth too.

If people I've known over the years happened look me up and tell me I haven't changed or progressed (and that means you Apu, you self-righteous, house-buying bigot), well, I'm just going to have to take that as a sign of my youthful visage.

So. I'm 24 years young. I'm still a bit of a nerd. And in my heart, I'm always going to be a kid.