Word count: 490
Summary: Not all slim people are happy about their size (this isn't just for the girls either; I got your back, fellas).
The last time it happened was at the weekend, in Camden.
After spending ages looking at a dress in one of the shop windows, figuring out what I could wear with it and how good it might look on me, I was sold. The shop specialised in things like floral print, lace bows, and ‘Peter Pan’ collars, so walking in made me feel great...really feminine, you know?
All was going well, but as the lady behind the counter handed me my new dress in a black plastic bag, she went:
“This dress will look perfect on you, you’re so skinny!”
I wasn’t expecting it that time, so I flinched.
The s-word propelled itself from her mouth, piercing my flesh like a crudely-cut piece of glass.
I wished harder than I ever had that I had been invisible. People were behind me in the queue, they had obviously heard her say it. I imagined everyone in the small space looking at the bits of me that stuck out, judging the arms that looked like they could be snapped like twigs, staring like inquisitive toddlers at the shoulder bones that refused to stay hidden no matter how much I altered my posture.
I did what I always did: returned her smile, made sure to squint my eyes for authenticity, said ‘thank you’, and left.
On the long bus-ride home I held it together, avoiding eye-contact with everyone and curling my fingers tighter around the bag’s handles. As soon as I closed my front door, the calm expression that I had carefully stitched together with all of my will-power started to fray at the edges before completely falling apart. Walking up the stairs to get to my room had never been so arduous; I’d take a couple of steps before wailing like a child and falling to my knees, hand gripping the banister for comfort.
I’ve had people tell me that I should be grateful to be the size that I am, that I’m a shit for complaining about a body that all of the girls try so hard to fit into.
A lot of girls my size strike a pose in front of reflective surfaces, whereas I stare daggers at my knobbly bits and imagine that it’s someone different staring back at me.
People think it’s okay to put their thumb and forefinger around my wrist, marveling at the fact that they can get them all the way around. My best friend once picked me up to prove to everyone that I was as light as I looked. Heck, I even had someone I barely knew try to put both hands around my waist last year.
I want to gather all of the “skinny”s, the “thin”s, the “bony”s and set them on fire so that they can’t hurt me anymore.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, broaden your mind, okay? Some people my size are happy, but others are not.
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