A few days ago, I was at my boyfriend's house. I am often at my boyfriend's house and it is usually a pretty good time. Many reasons for that but mostly because I love him, he loves me, his family is great and they feed me. So, yeah, not a bad place to be.
And he has some friends over who I would consider mutual friends of both of us as we've all known each other since Freshman year. And we're all talking and it's a good time and suddenly one of them looks at me and asks-
"Have you lost weight?"
I look down at my stomach and shrug-
"I don't know. Have I?"
"You look like you have."
And then I smile, feel good about myself, say thank you, and then we forget about it ever happening.
Until now.
For the past few days since I was asked if I had lost weight, I have been constantly staring at my reflection wondering if I should be doing more or less sit ups a night. I keep tilting my head back to eliminate the possibility of a second chin. I keep sucking in my stomach without thinking about it, only to wonder if I'm really sucking it in or not. Even now, I keep looking down at the bulge under my shirt only to look back up at the screen immediately because I worry about what I'm about to see.
Image sucks.
I've been called a lot of names in my time. Had a whole lot of unfriendly glances passed my way because I look like a lazy ass bitch. Which, in terms of atheism, you could probably make a case for. I'm strong as an ox but running is death sentence. I can climb up a wall in two minutes flat, so long as it's just straight up with no real curve or challenge, otherwise I will most likely have a stress/fear induced panic attack. I like working out, so long as it is mostly involving muscles rather than aerobics. So, no, I'm not that lazy, I just don't like running. Which is an issue in this town.
I've had this ongoing battle with the girl in the mirror for most of my life. When I was younger, my mother was so damn giddy that I was skinny that she encouraged me to buy bikinis when I was eleven. But then we would get there, rather than having me work a runway as I assume other mothers did when they bought their daughters swim wear, my mom would get this disgusted look on her face and tell me to put it away. Maybe next year. I would sob on those dressing room floors and remember picking up my backpack from the lunchroom table, putting it on, and then having the eighth grade boys across from me start averting their eyes, groaning and calling me "it" because as I put my backpack on, my shirt came up a little over my stomach.
And those were the days when I considered myself skinny.
And now I'm...what? A fat chick? Yeah, you could say that, and I would probably agree with you. But is that enough to treat me like a monster? Like I'm somehow less than the girls that can buy clothes anywhere?
It is easier now than it was in Middle School, oddly enough. People are more alright with the way I look, mostly because of my sparkling personality or some such bullshit. If I'm being openly mocked, it is rare and not too often about my body mass. But still, there is something that you just feel when you walk through those damn halls. Something that makes me tie my jacket around the smallest part of my waist so I can feel just a little thinner. Something that makes it awkward to sit in class, with my belly almost touching the fake wood while all the other girls can sit back in their chairs to the point where they're almost laying down. Something that makes me avert my eyes when I'm going to change for gym, or in the dressing room for some goddamn play.
I do think that I am beautiful. My teeth are pretty bad off but I think I can live with that. I've got pretty nice skin, really great eyes, workable hair, and a proud nose that reminds me of my dad and his bloodlines (you knew I was going to mention my dad at least once.)
I think I'm pretty, my best friends say I'm lovely, and my boyfriend of nine months thinks I'm drop dead sexy. So yeah, I guess that should be enough for me. Right?
