I’m a size 10. In my mind I’ve been an 8. Single digit, the smaller side of “medium”, petite little 8. In my mind I am not a 10. I am an 8. But in actuality-I am in fact, most usually, a 10. Size 10 jeans, size 10 pants, dresses-size 10. I’ve always been a “medium” girl. Never skinny, always curvier than most of my friends despite years of sports and semi-regular running. I could maybe have squeezed into the “trim” category like a pair of those elusive size 8 jeans on my good days. But that is not the norm for me. So now you know this fact about me and tomorrow I may regret that. But this is part of my story and this draft has been sitting in the unpublished folder for quite some time so usually I know that means it’s time to write.
When I was in the 7th grade I had a music teacher who told me I was too heavy to get the part of a dancer in our school chorus concert-my skinny friends being chosen for the part instead. She said I did a good job on the dance. But. Ah-there’s always been a “but” for me. But seeing as most ballerinas are tall and thin, the part would not suit me as I was petite and precociously curvy in my 13 year old body. I mourned this day for years-the beginning of my “but” perception of myself. I may have been pretty, but. Those hips. Those thighs. The rounded out parts of me a nagging reminder of the gap between me and beauty. Over time, I’ve become more kind to myself, even thankful for these “imperfections”. I’m proud of what I can do and so very grateful for my healthy body.
But this winter, I’ve been over here getting a little bit, well, a little bit fat. My running came to a hard stop (minus a couple runs in the rain) and I happily settled into hibernation mode. And like a little squirrel I filled my cheeks full, not really caring about my midsection that I could hide under a poncho and buttery soft leggings.
But alas, Spring is approaching and that old familiar voice of my elderly music teacher is nagging me again. And I really would just like it to go away. Kindly go away, Mrs. G, may God rest your soul. All I wanted was to get out of study hall that day, not your Two cents ringing in my ears for all my days.
Before you feel sorry for me or think I’m fishing for some reassurance let me tell you that I’m not. I am writing about journeys because I don’t live in the beginnings, the rough patches, or the happy endings. Each part is moving and before I forget about it, I want to document it. It makes it real for me-this stating of the obvious-and I have to think that someone else can relate too and that makes it worth it. I’m not even sure I know what to do about this spot I’m in-I guess I need to do something. But I’ll start with where I’ve come from and where I’m at and maybe that will help me get to where I’m going.
*I just really hope it isn’t a place where iced coffee doesn’t live. Because then I might just stay in my poncho all summer long.*