Where our heroine confronts some of her body issues.

[carose59]

On the Internet, Nobody Knows You're a Dog.*

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We are not our bodies. Our bodies don't matter.

Breasts too small and sagging.
Hips too wide.
Ass out to there.
Thighs like legs of lamb. (Maybe I just need lamb's wool pants . . . .)
No, not pregnant; it's all me.
Legs bowed. (A bowlegged lamb?)
Face too fat.
Nails bitten down, torn up.
Short. Short. Let's say it again: Short.
(I can wear black. Remember that. Not every woman can wear black; some women look sallow in black.)

Braces to fix legs, teeth (different braces, I hardly need to add). But the legs are still wrong, and the teeth still stick out, and I still have that lisp.
Don't ever, ever, for God's sake, wear a dress with a belt! Makes you looklike a sack of potatoes tied in the middle.
Fat arms. Fat legs. Fat. Fat. Let's say it again: Fat.
(We could call it zaftig, but why pretend? It's fat. Fat. Fat. The Original Sin of the second half of the twentieth century.)
No matter what I wear, I'm always rumpled.
And what about all those moles all over? Certainly not pretty.
Scars on my legs. Just wear slacks, that'll hide everything but the Fat.
Who needs dresses anyway? Dresses are for pretty girls.
The face in my mirror is my mother's, larger, but the same mouth, nose, guarded eyes.
Dark circles under the eyes
Thick hair, lots of it, some body to it, but it frizzes, won't stay in place.
The color's indeterminate, but Lady Clairol can fix that. Maybe I should wear it in my face.
Speaking of hair, and my face . . . . And depilatories don't work, just make my (hair-covered) chin tingle for hours.

We are not our bodies. Our bodies don't matter.

. . . to be continued.


*New Yorker cartoon caption