Thursday, July 17, 2008


I've posted before about my lack of a secure body image. Recently I've been consciously trying to develop a semblance of one - I'll describe myself as "small," or I'll talk about my bony ass (metal folding chairs are especially torturous). Even when I say that, though, a part of me doesn't believe it.

Then there are times when I'm forced to confront it. Like at the barbecue, when a respected (yet grandmotherly) private-sector consultant urged me to get desert because I'm "so nice and slim." Or when I actually look in the mirrors that line the walls of the workout room*. Or when I'm alarmed by my cheekbones one morning. To truly realize that I'm thin, in contrast to the constant feeling that I'm not, is bewildering.

I'm too thin. I can say that now and almost - god, I'm so close - I almost really believe it.

So I'll do this - when my parents come down next weekend, I'll take them to Baskin Robbins or one of the gelato places out here. I will enjoy it; they will enjoy it (my mother especially). And then I'll make another goal. And I'll keep going until I don't get weirded out by my own wristbones.

*Why the hell do fitness centers do that, anyway?

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