"You're amazing," is the last thing somebody says to me as I'm locking them out, closing up the bar.
"M'glad," I slur. "Cheers! Get home safe!"
I come home and all I think is, "Everyone who loves me is repulsed by me." They try to sugarcoat it, but they are every one disgusted by my larger physique.
And so, no matter how clever I may be, no matter how well I apply mascara or compile an outfit, no matter how many compliments I gather a day, I am disgusting. I am worthless. To even concern myself with this issue is an abomination unto mankind, but the bottom line is: I am not an ideal version of myself, physically. Which means that I need to punish myself, mentally. Which means that I surround myself with my reflection, disguise myself with hairdye and bravada and, for God's sake, I suck it in.
My mom once asked me if she should advise a perfectly heathy girl -- we were in a dressing room at an Anthropologie -- that she should not buy the dress she was so clearly in love with because, and I quote (you can tell because of the quotations marks): "Oh no! But she's going to have to suck it in every time she wears it! I'm going to go tell her."
I hate myself that I am a size 6. I hate that I am a medium. I hate that I am normal.
I had to physically restrain her. And it's only until very, very recently that I've realized that, you don't need to suck it in. You don't need to disguise it. You don't need to justify it, rationalize it--"Well, I just quit smoking. Well, I'm about to start my period. Well, I just broke up with my boyfriend." Well, I'm FAT, I'm OUT OF SHAPE, and that's because I eat too much and don't work out enough.
When they tell you that there is more than one type of beauty, they are not talking about hair length or skin color. I mean, they are, but let's just say they aren't.
They are not talking about dress size or proportion. They are talking about what you look like RIGHT NOW, not after you complete a thousand spinning classes, not before you eat that extra cookie, and not when you're wondering if you should or shouldn't buy the dress you love because you would have to exhale into your abdomen to fit into society's shape of what is worthy to be called feminine.
Right now. Your belly hanging over your hips. Your triceps flying freely in the wind. Your outer thighs dimpling with the weight of your ample ass. You are beautiful, right now, because you know this moment exists futilely.
But you go ahead and think that. I'm going to sit over here and hate myself that all I want in the world is a pineapple pizza.
And that's what's going on in my brain. How are you?