Everyone has that one thing that bothers them more than it should. For some it’s a slightly disproportionate nose, or a muffin top, it could even be something as stupid as a mole next to your eye or an odd birth mark . It’s usually something that no one sees but you, and what you see is usually far worse than what it really is. Somehow, you’re able to mentally mutilate this tiny, rather insignificant blemish and turn it into an exaggerated, amplified version of what it was to begin with.
My weakness has always been my weight. That’s not to say I’m obese or anything, I’m what they call “full-figured” . I hate the fact that it bothers me so much because overtly I’m all for being confident of who you are and how you look , but deep down only I know how insecure I am about my body. Somehow subconsciously I’v bought into that cover girl- tall-skinny-booby idea of perfection the media has been selling to us ever since the invention of fashion magazines, even though I’m fully aware of the fact that the girls on the covers of those magazines and in the movies, and on TV look the way they do because of extensive airbrushing and photoshopping.
“oh, theres this new gym down the road, we should go!,” or “Oh, girls like us really have to work hard to maintain our figures na,” seemingly innocent comments like these, would invoke my inner beast and send me into fits of inexplicable rage that would usually end with me and the poor soul who decided to talk to me, crying in a pool of blood.
At a very good friends party the other day, I met a boy. A reasonably attractive boy at that. I was dancing and just generally having a great time with my friends, when said hot boy decided to dance next to me. I asked him whether he was in the twelfth grade too, he said he was. He asked me where I studied, I told him. He cracked a lame science joke, I tittered politely. He started to take selfies with my friend who was hosting the party, I was standing about half a meter away, so he asked me to join too. I thought, oh what the hell, and joined them.
A few hours later, the host and I were sitting in her room post party, when the boy texted her, asking her to call him ASAP. He asked her to make sure she was alone. Obviously, she switched on speaker phone and we waited expectantly as the phone rang.
“hey, there was this girl at the party, in a black dress,” I looked down at what I was wearing, and caught my breath. GREAT DAY TO WEAR BLACK!
“Not S******, the other one,”
omgomgomg hot boy wants me!!!!
“the slightly fat girl, yeah, give me her number.”
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I wanted to grab the phone and hurl it out of an open window. My friend looked up at me nervously and immediately turned off speaker phone.
I went home seething, who did he think he was, calling me fat. He wasn’t even that hot. Jerk.
But a few hours of ice cream induced self reflection and I thought, does it really matter?
Maybe I’m not thin,
Maybe my rather ample bottom, wont ever fit into 24″ waist jeans,
Maybe my stomach wasn’t made for ab lines,
Nobody’s perfect, not even Beyonce.