It's funny how you get used to yourself. You're just You. It gets hard to step back and be objective about yourself. I'm covered with moles, all over my arms. My hands are the least elegant objects I've ever seen, with their roughly cut nails and chewed skin. There are dark circles under my eyes and a pimple right between them on my nose. I've got a bit of a pot-belly, like I never quite lost the puppy fat from childhood. My face is a funny mix of parents and relatives - dad's high forehead and nose, but somehow a grin like my uncle Patrick, and at the same time I'm unmistakably my mother's daughter. My bottom teeth are kind of crooked, because I didn't wear my plate as much as I should have after my braces came off. I'm pretty enough, in my way, but I don't turn heads. Except Aidan's, but I'm not sure that counts because he's in love with me. My thighs look fat and flabby when I sit down, but my calves (calfs?) are alright. They'd be nicer if I shaved them more often. As for my feet, the less said the better. Nobody's feet are attractive. Mine have more callouses than most, the product of a bush childhood and never listening to my mother's pleas to wear shoes.