What’s your size? She asks.
“Oh, you know, 6, 8, 10.”
I. Am. A turtle, retreating into her shell.
A deflated balloon on the frozen grass in a lonely, familiar yard.
Were you ever this small? A size 4, another she asks, holding an old dress I’m giving away.
I pause, smile, nod, a soft “yes” escapes.
I am a turtle, a flat balloon.
My shell, it’s fancy as fuck, a colorful minefield of ancient thoughts, buried deep until—a stranger, or friend accidentally steps on one, triggering an explosion of ancient, ancient phrases, phrases my thirty-eight year old logical mind know are false, absolute fake news
And yet, once that mine erupts, it’s over—You have become fat. You are fat. You don’t do enough to be thin. You should workout more…more intensely. You should stop eating like crap. You are the heaviest you’ve ever been!
Extreme thoughts are familiar, cozy, make me feel like I’m solving a problem
Logic disappears, evaporates and feelings settle as debris, yearning to grow roots in my fancy as fuck shell.
You are big on top and bottom, I am small on top and big on the bottom, a different she says.
This time. I laugh. What’s a girl to do?
Actually,
a Girl
can—Stop.
Breathe, reassess, for none of it is about her—personally.
Nope.
This is about centuries of steady brainwash of a woman’s body:
Have curves; curves mean you’re fat
Be thin; too thin means something’s wrong
Still so many want thin, even too thin, over fat or too fat
What’s your size? He asks.
My size is love.
It’s grace.
It’s beauty.
It’s intelligence.
It’s artist, teacher, writer.
It’s every fucking thing,
Me.
