Please enjoy an audio read of this piece if you’re unable to read or simply don’t feel like it. Be sure to scroll through for photos for additional context (and maybe a laugh).
Before we get into some storytelling and tedious analysis, you should know that I hate the term “glow-up.” I only really hate it as of today, but I’m over and done with it, I tell you. “Glow-up” is a term other people use behind your back to imply that you were uglier or poorer at some point, and some divine force (er, plastic surgeon) took pity on you. “Glow-up” lacks agency on part of the glowee, which undermines the work it takes to improve oneself. The grueling isolation of doing what it takes to become whom you want to be. And so I propose a linguistic switcheroo…
“Self-improvement” isn’t sexy.
“Rebrand” and those who use it unironically can go to hell.
What about “revamp?”
To vamp is to seduce and a vamp is a seductress; to revamp is to bring the heat back to that relationship between you and the mirror. People often use “revamp” when describing changes made to their homes, and I love the idea of putting on my little tool belt and hard hat to update the light fixtures in my head, put a fresh coat of paint on this body.
So yeah, the glow-up is dead. We are revamping henceforth. Whatever you want to call it, it comes at an emotional cost.
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I’m notorious for avoiding responsibilities until the last minute (more like a minute too late, if we’re being honest). For example, every time I get got by the fascist regime they call the Philadelphia Parking Authority, I neglect to pay the ticket until the fee doubles. One of those annual tickets appears, without fail, because I “forget” to get my car inspected on time. These mishaps are avoidable, predictable; and yet, I act flabbergasted in the moment, like I couldn’t possibly be at fault and if someone should subvert these institutions designed to thwart our upward mobility, it might as well be me! I keep waiting for this character flaw to become charming, like friends you can always count on to show up late with a cute smile and perfect makeup. But alas.
In Pennsylvania, your driver’s license is valid for four years and expires the day after your birthday. In years past, I’d creep around with an expired license and hold my breath and pray the rosary for like, a good month post-expiration, as if it couldn’t all be solved by a Saturday morning trip to the DMV. But like every outwardly sane American, I hate the DMV. I think it’s musty and depraved. And if it’s hard to energize me to do the things I love, you can imagine the inert response toward shit I hate.
2018 was a year of high highs and low lows. My sister died of cancer. I was shifting in and out of relationships with two different exes. Doing coke on the weekends (I’ll let you decide if that’s a high or a low). I blew all my money on Coachella… then again getting Rocky Mountain high all over Colorado… then again in an Aperol-colored fever dream on the coast of Sicily.
So no, your honor, I did not renew my license the day after my birthday. Fuck.
I can remember exactly where I was when I realized it might behoove me to visit the DMV that summer. I was hungover as hell at ex #1’s house in rural Northeastern PA. He was already out on a Saturday morning landscaping job when I rolled out of bed and, without looking in the mirror, without brushing my teeth or hair, and definitely without applying a stitch of makeup, made my way to the Hazleton DMV. A godless place, really, I looked the part. I didn’t care about my photo because I didn’t care about much beyond not getting a DUI at 11 AM, or not letting ex #1 find out about ex #2 (and vice versa). They showed me the photo and I distinctly remember flashing a sarcastic, self-deprecating thumbs up. I would be stuck with a photo at my absolute worst for the next four years and anyone who had anything to say about it could definitely say it to my face because this was a conscious decision and aren’t I so much prettier than this, please, won’t you tell me?
The thing about that photo that helped me lean into it as a party trick was that it perfectly captured where I was at in my life. I might not have looked that bad in my day-to-day, but I certainly felt it—searching for one forever in two temporary men, retreating to an impenetrable cocoon of grief (still waiting on the whole butterfly thing, but people keep dying on me), bartending myself into a sleepless daze on top of a 9-5 to afford rent. I was down bad, but at least I could shrug my shoulders and say, “look at my fucking license” and get a good laugh. And if you think this is bad, just wait til you see my passport photo!
My birthday this year was a comeback. Here I am, 31 years-old, engaged to my dream guy, waking up in my dream apartment, getting my face licked by my dream dog. I love my job and my friends. I’m healthy and fit. I get to read and write at my leisure. I recently found a great hairdresser and I speak more than one language. And to top it off, my family came in to celebrate, and my nephews slept over for the first time. I have to brag! It finally felt like all those years of bumbling around and getting my heart broken by life were worth something. And on my birthday nonetheless—a day I historically put so much pressure on and could, for once, kick back and say I’m just happy to be here.
So on July 9th, the actual day after my birthday, I blow-dried my hair, put on makeup, and drove down to the DMV. The staff at the Oregon Ave DMV in Philadelphia are infinitely nicer and more helpful than those in rural PA (which should really dispel any dumb thoughts you may have about city folk, for the record). I waited a while, enough time to reflect on being 31 and finally not searching for greener pastures. When they called my number, we got my photo on the first try, just like in 2018. But this time, my thumbs up wasn’t loaded with the same “welp, this is it” sense of resignation. It was more like, “Are you sure you have the right girl????” A good picture of yourself can be disorienting. When I got home from renewing my license, I stared at the photo for a long time trying to make the connection between IRL me and license me. Am I Miss Put Together with over-lined lips and shiny hair? Or am I human sweatpants à la 2018?
An answer of “somewhere in between” or “both at once” seems obvious enough. But it didn’t quite hit me until I handed my ID to the bartender in my neighborhood dive this past weekend and she exclaimed, “great photo!” Because neighborhood dives were places I’d frequent with the same ex who had the coke, who lived in rural Northeastern PA, whose bed I rolled out of to head to the DMV four years ago. I wanted to somehow remind this total stranger that I swear I don’t always look cute, that I still leave the house without makeup and I love dives like this, as if she wouldn’t just be like, “ok... so, did you want to keep a tab open or close it out?”
In all my revamping experiences, I find myself awkwardly defensive. On one hand, I want to protect the less attractive me, convince people there’s nothing wrong with her before they’ve even said anything. My fiancé was a good looking kid his entire life. He was shocked to see I wasn’t particularly blessed as a child and kind of came into my own over time. I remember feeling sad when he laughed at my pre-teen photos because that was such an innocent time in my life. I didn’t even know I wasn’t cute because I had this innate confidence not yet damaged by ruthless boys or the internet. If I couldn’t protect her, I would defend her memory.
Then on the other hand, sometimes revamped me gets hit with comments like, “You were so much cooler then!” or “I like a thicker Dia better.” (Seriously, I have heard both and more.) It takes all of me to hold back from launching into full harangue about the dejection cooler, thicker Dia endured. But everyone feels entitled to whichever you fits their standards of acceptability, which often translates to whichever you feels less threatening to their sense of self; we view everyone in our own likeness, after all. I’m guilty of it. In the momentary consideration I gave rhinoplasty, scrolling various plastic surgery before-and-after photos, I felt betrayed by these women. They had character before, individuality, culture. I wanted every girl with a bump in her nose to feel the warmth of a gracious sun on her face from a gilded throne atop the highest mountain. I wanted a say in their revamp.
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As I settle into this current self, I find my mind already wandering to whom I’ll be next. Will she have armpit hair? Will she file her taxes before the eleventh hour on April 15th? Will she still carry a blue JanSport backpack to the office? Tough to say. But the desire to change will remain a constitutional dimension of the human spirit. This will feel exhausting, like an endless strive. Or it will keep you on your toes, shocked and delighted by the interesting company you keep in a room all alone.
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