As with other sport, there are several “official” competitions sanctioned by licensed organizations for college rugby. But there are also unofficial matches—our “friendlies,” our festivals. During these events, teams gather for weekends full of rugby matches, drinking, bruises, wearing over-the-top costumes, and even more rugby. Nothing says “fun” to these people quite like slamming into each other full force while a little buzzed and wearing a tutu.

I was in seventh grade, a twelve-year-old pudgy, buck-toothed, frizzy-haired, acne-prone girl totally oblivious to my supposed physical flaws and shortcomings. I lived in my own sheltered bubble. I went to school, did homework when I got back home, and then played in the backyard with our neighbor’s kid. I went to the library with my mother a lot. Perhaps most informatively, though, I lacked exposure to most media. I watched TV only once a week and seldom watched movies (except for the occasional viewing of Dumbo). This fostered a sense of cluelessness about societal expectations of beauty.

Our society very clearly communicates that pretty is everything. Pretty is skipping breakfast. Pretty is counting calories. Pretty is losing weight (and not gaining it back). Pretty is being told by friends that “you look so skinny.”