When I was in high school, Gentle Reader, I went to a dance with a boy. And, as one does (especially in the 1990s) I took pictures with said boy and another couple who were friends of mine. Well, another friend (frenemy, perhaps?) saw the picture and said, “Look, she’s as big as the two of you put together!”
And people wonder why I–and thousands of women all over America–have body issues.
It was a cruel thing to say. It was not said in my hearing, only to some friends of mine, who promptly told the person off. But that’s the life I lived, hearing about my size and being compared unfavorably to people around me.
I say this because I find myself comparing my body to other women’s bodies in the near vicinity. I walk into a room and think, “Am I the largest woman here?”
Why? Why is this the thing I do? Why must I try to hurt myself, and others, by constant comparison?
Because no matter how old I get, I still hear those voices from my youth.
And they are painful.
I’m trying, Reader. I truly am. I’m trying to love the body I’m in. But it’s not easy.