I weighed as much as my mom by the time I was in sixth grade, and I’ve out-massed her ever since. (This is not as horrifying as it could be, seeing that my mom is one of those women who occasionally comes home from work and eats only a small bowl of cottage cheese for dinner. She’s also managed to convince herself that riding her bike for fifty-plus miles a day is fun.) All my friends had size zero (or sometimes double-zero… I think that was a thing) hips and stomachs, taught like rubber bands, that connected those slight hips to rib cages. I’d go shopping with my mom, and she’d set me up in shirts like small circus tents and shorts down to my knees. “We don’t want your belly hanging out,” she’d tell me. I used to wonder what life would be like if I were skinny. Skinny girls are essentially all-powerful.
So, years later, I picked up running, lost fifteen pounds over the span of six years, and now… I’m skinny! I know because once I saw my mom and she said, “You’re skinny” and eyed me suspiciously. Also, I ask Mitch about it sometimes.
I’m still waiting for my prize. Because, that’s what happens, right? You gain when you lose. It’s weird; I’ve arrived in this highly-coveted place of being comfortable with how I look, and nobody has shown up, yet, with a box of money.
So I guess, now, I take up slightly less space. I still need to figure out what I’m going to do with my life – figure out how I’m going to do anything with my life. Dropping a pants size didn’t resolve that for me; it feels so strange.