When I was in middle school and in the prime of my ugliness, I bought Britney's first CD. It was pink. The front of it had her sitting there smiling, with her soft straight blonde hair falling gently down her back and her tanned legs sculpted to perfection underneath a trendy jean skirt. A delicate white bracelet was wrapped neatly around her wrist. I remember this so well because I would stare at Britney for literally hours, almost ready to sell my soul to look like her. Why couldn't my short, stubby legs be long and lean like hers? Why couldn't I wake up to sleek, manageable hair instead of the black mass of curls I currently owned? Why couldn't my prettiness be captured on the front of a bubble gum sweet CD so boys could dream about dating me? The booklet inside the case had more pictures of flawless Britney smiling and doing other attractive things and each time I flipped through it I wished God could give me another chance. I was twelve then, I am nineteen now. Britney has since married, popped out two kids, divorced, shaved her head, gained weight, and went through rehab. I don't wish I was her anymore. As I see her pasty face on the covers of tabloids I think back to how she used to be such a golden goddess to me and how now, even with her millions of dollars, she still got fat and now she's bald. This is more about me realizing there's no point in fantasizing about being someone else than it is about Britney Spears. That and the fact that anyone can look good with a make up artist, a hair stylist, and a personal trainer.