I’m not a morning person, not even a little. Not even a teensy smidge of a fraction of a little. So it’s safe to say I don’t leave myself primping time every morning before work. I don’t wear make up, it’s fine. But I do my hair, try to clean up, make myself look acceptable. And every morning I’d come downstairs, fix my part, adjust my bangs, look in the mirror and think…
Ouch. But it’s how I’ve spent most of my life thinking. Never a “Hell yes.” or even a “Not bad.”, just resignation and moving on. I can’t pinpoint the moment I decided to give in to that self image of an obese homely spinster in the making, one that I forced myself to return to every morning like I deserved it. But it felt like it’s always been that way, and that’s just how it has to be.
Then I was wasting time on Facebook, scrolling my way through a million things I was barely seeing. (Ah, modern life.) Right when I was ready to give up and move along, I stumbled across this little article.
It was… An experience. Oddly enough, everything on there from one to fourteen had never occurred to me. Ever. Skinny girls can’t have rolls, right? And that whole thing about fat girls and hot guys… That’s an urban legend. Clearly. One designed by someone extra super devious somewhere to keep the rest of us hoping. Right?
By the end, I found myself close to tears. I’m not a crier. I don’t respect it, I never have. But every item hit one right after the other, every article linked within only adding weight to their swing, and at long last, something clicked.
I pushed back from my desk and went to the full length mirror in my room. No curve went unstudied, no roll unpoked or prodded at. Slowly but surely, I could see it. Great hair color, even if it doesn’t always style perfect. Almond hazel eyes. Full lips. Small enough waist, curves even if they aren’t always where they should be, proportionate thighs… And let’s not forget the rack. That’s not a half bad rack, if I do say so myself.
Seriously, you guys. I’m actually kind of cute.
I’ve been told this before. My mother always tells me I’m beautiful. My family and friends compliment my hair, or my sense of style, or all of the above. But for some reason, if only because it was such a balls to the wall piece from a fellow fat chick (and so was every link in there), it sank in. And it’s reverberating. I feel just that much more confident, that much prettier, and I’m starting to think someone actually could love me even if I can’t drop fifty pounds. I don’t need to settle, and I’m not going to.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a magical transformation. I still wish my thighs were smaller, or my feet weren’t huge (my waifish friend considers anything above a size nine, which is her size by the by, to be ‘man feet’), or my hands were smaller, or my hair would stop frizzing so very much. I still want to drop a few pounds (not fifty), but now it feels more like it’s for me, and not for the rest of the world. Fuck them.
Hell, I might even go swimsuit shopping for the first time in years.
But I know I’m not completely there, and that’s okay. A click vibrates, makes ripples, and that rippling means change.
So from one fat chick to another, Jes Baker, I thank you. You made the impossible possible. I won’t forget it.