I’m “skinny-fat” my best
friend said, tugging at skin stretched taut against her frame. I could tell she believed there was something to grab onto. “She must be crazy.” I thought. I have flab and wrinkles, but most of them I’ve earned by eating really good food and laughing too hard. I’ve never once cried over a slice of pizza. My mother tells me that I am beautiful, but I have her metabolism. That I won’t be able to eat like this forever. I tell her that I’m lucky to have gotten anything from her. My ex used to tell me that I felt like a woman, that my curves wrapped around her like a blanket. That she liked the way they held her against me. Later, when we broke up, She told me to keep the exercise equipment. That I needed it more than she did. That my curves would soon be roundabouts. It amazed me how a blanket became an embarrassment. How my figure became a target. How she could stop loving something she held so tightly the years before. No longer being gazed upon by a forgiving eye, I stopped seeing my reflection through a rose- colored lover’s lens. Under darker scrutiny my body became no longer my own. It went to the magazines, and the movies, the teacher in high school who wrapped his hands around my ribcage, squeezed tightly beneath my breasts and exclaimed, “THIS is your waist.” I let him. I let them all. And here she stands, still mashing her skin out like putty. I'm beside her, fingers shaking, pushing and pulling parts of me that might make “this” look a little better. We will do anything for a photograph, but will do nothing for happiness. By the time my body stretches enough to carry a child I hope that my perspective has changed. I do not want them to -- male, female, or other -- carry the insecurities that I have. I want them to see themselves through the biased eyes of their mother. My body, and their body, her body and your body, Will somebody please tell me what normal looks like, because we are all beautiful and not a single one the same.
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Tennessee Martin
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