Complementary

You can call me pretty all you want, but that doesn't mean a thing. 

I know I am pretty. 

That may sound conceded or slightly pretentious but I have heard the same phrase my entire life. 

People comment on my photos, they tell my mom and grandparents, boys send me texts.

I have been called pretty over a hundred times iand at this point I don't want to hear it anymore. 

"Thank you" I reply. "You're pretty attractive yourself" 

The words have no weight because they carry no meaning.

The knowledge that someone is physically attracted to me is about as important as the ant that was just squished by a hello kitty shoe on an elementary school playground somewhere in Northern Nebraska. 

The other day a boy told me that I knew how to think. 

A few weeks ago a boy told me that I am going to have a great marriage once I find the right guy. 

Last year a boy told me that I am going to be an amazing mother and wife. 

I couldn't tell you the name of the last person that commented in my appearance, but I can tell you the name and birthdate of each boy that gave me those compliments. I can tell you what the sky looked like and what position I was sitting in. I can describe the feeling I got deep in my chest when I heard the words and I can tell you the color of each boys socks. 

Those words left imprints on my soul. 

I don't know if I have an extraordinary mind. 

I don't know if I will have a good marriage. 

I don't know if I will make a great mother or be an adequate wife.  

But somebody else does know that, and they felt that it was important enough to tell me.

That is affection and those are words I yearn to hear.