I was once curvier. Big boobs, big ass. I never liked it on me. Then, it seemed a burden, unwanted weight on my small frame. I grew to accept it, after trying anything, unhealthy things, to be rid of the womanly curves.
Now I am thin. I am in my mid-thirties, a time when most women, thin or not, start to put on the pounds. I am lean but have enough curves not to look like a twelve year-old. I am cute, sometimes beautiful and look younger than I am. Right, fuck me.
My thinness, a result of working my ass off, literally, running around the resort where I work with crates of liquor, beer, wine. From dining room to wine cellar to kitchen to bar, up and down stairs, cases in arm, restocking, setting up temporary bars for weddings and family reunions and such.
I eat, I eat well, but I eat and run. The buffets and fine dining are at my disposal. A dessert case of last night's gourmet peanut butter cups and chocolate cake and coconut custard pie are open to all employees 18-hours a day. I sample.
I work hard. I play hard and spend any free time I have visiting my parents, my sisters, a few close friends, sometimes a boy.
Once in a while I sneak up the path, past the boiler house, and the main building of the resort, where I live and work, and hike a trail. I only go at night, alone. Employees and guests are strongly discouraged from hiking at night. I hike to the top when the sky is clear and the moon permits. I stop at the top of the lake to let my eyes adjust to the dark. No flash light. I need my hands and refuse to wear one of those silly helmets with a minor's light attached that are sold in the gift shop.
From my favorite spot, I look out over the main guesthouse, look up at the stars. I sit for a bit, never more than half an hour. In the darkness I am not thin or fat, I am just me. Then I scramble down the rocks, through the trees, I think it's a path, back to the dorms. Years ago I never would have done this, I would sit in my apartment and eat ice cream and wonder why I was lonely. Now I know it was not because I was bigger, but because I was in my apartment, hiding, eating ice cream or not.
I guess I feel I need an excuse for my thinness. But I don't have one. There was a time, in my teens, when Kate Moss was the epitome of beauty and I was thick, when I would have given anything to be thin. Now it just is, I am. A result of living, not eating my sorrows away or sitting lonely in my room. I just don't have time to dwell on myself, pitifully as I once did, bigger or thinner. Maybe I would have always been thin, had I taken better care of myself. That's the point right, taking care of yourself?
A young woman I work with recently looked at me nastily blurted out, "you're tooooo thin! It's gross." I bit my tongue, thinking "I'm sorry you hate your curves, I'm sorry you smoke your weight in Mary Jane and order pizza every night." No woman likes to be picked apart, her body put in the spotlight with disdain. Instead I said, "you look like a real woman, and your boyfriend loves you." She bit her tongue.
But I get it. I can't talk about clothes shopping and not finding something I like or feeling bloated, not around many women. I know how it sounds, how they feel, looking at me, annoyed, looking for flaws, which I have, to compare.
What they don't know is this, my last boyfriend cheated. He cheated with a big girl. After I found out, I remember looking in the mirror, naked, cupping my small breasts, missing what I once had. I turned to the side and arched my back to stick out my ass. I stood there crying, picturing him entwined with her and her curvy womanhood. I imagined his face planted in her enormous boobs, his hands grabbing her buxom butt as he thrust. I sobbed, feeling like less of a woman, unwanted, not enough.
Fuck the media, Fuck implants, fuck Vogue and Cosmo and fuck Acai Berry.
Fuck the dirty old men who harass me at work and look at me lustily like I'm Lolita. Their wives of 20 something years, who's wider hips are testament of the life and love they gave, who look at me with that "you little whore" face. I smile, it's my job. I understand. I hate it.
When I sit and blabber with women I work with, or with my girl friends, and weight comes up, as it always does with women, I refrain. My leg starts to shake under the table and I look away like I'm lost in thought. Sometimes an opportunity comes, after an awkward moment of silence, when they realize I have been quiet, I say, "yeah, yeah, I'm a skinny bitch, I know." They laugh. I get it. I can't say anything and shouldn't. I don't talk about watching how much sugar or fat I eat, my dad has battled diabetes and high blood pressure and I worry. I don't talk about feeling like a child, undeveloped. I don't tell them I was once bigger, in high school, when girls were cruel and boys were idiots. I don't tell them I worry that any man who is attracted to me is somehow messed up, that he likes little girls or will end up controlling, dominant, abusive. It's happened before. My concerns are hidden, and remain so.
Bodies change, women's bodies change alot, from puberty, pregnancy, childbirth, menopause, age. Mine will change again. But for now, I'm a skinny bitch.