girl versus body

Hey body,

It’s time for us to talk about your little renovations. I know you’re 25 now, and you’re thinking about settling down, but I’ve got a bone to pick with you. You’re too big for all of my clothes.

I guess we could call this “retaliation”. I put you through a pretty hectic summer. I’m sorry about that. I know you don’t really like vodka anymore, and the late nights we used to enjoy together a few years ago stress you out these days. But body, I’m not made of money. (You know that, obviously, because I’m made of you, and you’re not money.) When you decided to start expanding you didn’t consider that I can’t afford to buy new clothes to put you in. We can’t very well go to classes naked, can we?

Don’t get upset. I’m not saying that I don’t like the new you. It’s just taking some getting used to. Actually, fuck it. I don’t like the new you. I basically hate the new you. Even worse, I’m angry that I hate the new you. Why should I? You’re mine. You’re me. But you’re getting fat.

I get it. All that pizza’s gotta go somewhere. We’ve never been that into salad or jogging. This was inevitable. We both knew it. And the thing is, I can see the beauty in you. In your new belly and butt and the dimples in your thighs. I can see it, but I don’t buy it, because as much as I don’t want to admit it, I want you to be skinny.

Bear with me through this, body. I think this soliloquy is going somewhere.

I want you to be skinny because maybe if you were skinny I would get what I want. The reason I think this is pretty obvious and also old news: skinny is glorified. Skinny is beautiful. Skinny is successful. Skinny is happy.

I know this. I’ve written impassioned academic essays about it. About how women’s bodies are marketing tools and the more we hate them the more money we spend trying to improve them. For whom? Would I love you if you went down a dress size? Or would I just find another flaw to fix? Another destructive way to validate you? I’ve called bullshit on size mattering a thousand times, but it’s finally got me. I finally don’t like what I see in the mirror.

And here we are, body. Love handles and cellulite and that double-edged word, “curves”. The curves we’re supposed to pretend we think are beautiful but secretly want to lose. I don’t want to want to lose them. I don’t want to dislike you, to fear you, to abuse you. I want us to be friends again.

So let’s take it slow. I promise I’ll try and listen to you, and maybe even spoil us by buying you some nice new roomy jeans. Please forgive me if I don’t say nice things about you. I’ll always come around. You’ve got plenty of ways to remind me how lovely you are.

Love,

Emma

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