Skinniness and Confidence

I'm not obese. But I'm most certainly not a supermodel.

I wonder what it is like to be skinny.

 

It must be pretty great; I doubt it’s overrated at all. Never having to adjust your legs so that they rest on your chair in the most flattering position, never having to pull down your shirt to ascertain that there are no unbecoming bulges, never having to turn sideways in the mirror of a dressing room to check how pregnant you look in a certain shirt.

 

It’s absolutely exhausting, being fat. Enervating. You wouldn’t think that it would be such a big deal if you haven’t experienced it, and maybe it’s not--even for those of you who have. But it always has been for me. For me, my weight is the one thing that seems to hold me back. It is the one thing that prevents a full and healthy self-esteem. I have no doubts of my intelligence. I cannot change my personality and do not wish to. But I have never considered myself attractive, and that I can only blame on my voluminous thighs and less than toned stomach.

 

Do they judge me immediately? Probably not. Do they check my tray at lunch to see if it is piled high with fattening foods of indulgence? It never is. Do they realize that the reason I abhor for anyone to poke my stomach is not just because I am jumpy, but because I hate the softness they feel? They most likely fail to even place importance on the fact that my stomach is slightly softer, that it offers less resistance.

 

But all of these things are important to me. They plague me.

 

Last summer, I finally began to gain the courage to wear shorts. I had bought a pair the year before but never put them on. That year, however, was my year. I was going to wear them, despite the thoughts of others. They looked fine on me, I thought, and my best friend (my gorgeous, supermodel, underweight best friend) agreed: she thought they looked great. I put them on, didn’t look in the mirror (because I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to keep them on if I did), and came downstairs, only for my mother to look at me reproachfully and ask me to take them off.

 

“They just don’t look good on you, honey. Lose some weight first.”

 

She meant it to help, I know. It was not an attack on my self-esteem. It was the truth, and unfortunately, my mother is always honest, even when her honesty is more painful than easy lies. But I cannot wear those shorts anymore. I do not even look at them where they hang in my closet, lost among pants and jeans that hide my thighs.

 

I cannot decide if that is a good thing or not.

Reviews

[Beckie D]

I like this alot, maybe because being an Australian size 16 I can relate to this so much. I love how real this is and how this affects so many people world wide and you addressed it so beautifully. What's most beautiful about it is the raw honesty; you're poetry really shows the person that you are.

[Tenebrousoul]

I don't have to see you to know that you are a beautiful person.

I think we all are disgusted with ourselves at times. But you really shouldn't be. Anyone that can put such articulation into such a personal thought and then post it for the world to read has to have a beautiful soul. I'm truly sorry, though. :(

[RainQueen]

It takes a lot of courage to matter-of-factly describe the war women fight with their bodies. We're programmed to believe we must fit a ridiculous mold, and anything remotely different is imperfection, flaw.

We internalize these "imperfections" until they score a deep chasm through our souls. And it's wrong.

You told the truth. Clearly, honestly, no artifice. Maybe doing this over and over, hundreds of girls and women...Maybe it could somehow shift the tide.

Beautiful write~