I used to diet by eating one Reeses and a slice of pizza
BOOM! I was a waif and always running late.
Now, I see skinny women of a certain age and think…
“They must smoke.” This is not a joke. I can look at a
a pack of Oreos and my ass fat quadruples. Oreos are
unscrupulous little wafers of hate.
Things…certain things…now jiggle instead
of lift and bounce, and I ain’t talkin’ about
my ears. I could blame it on the years, but that’s like
listening for singular voice in a canyon of echoes.
I now have to buy jeans from a section for “curvy,”
Is that like being big boned? I used to check my
Bone-ed-ness with fingers around my wrist. How can I
check my curves? By looking at my thighs and that space
in between. Mind the gap they say, except ain’t nobody
falling in that space. Or do I check with two arms around
my waist? Maybe that’s how I can tell if I carry too much
meat. If those arms can circle me whole then SWEET, but
if they linger disengaged well, I’ll soften that blow with
a bit of yogurt, maybe an apple and a cry. Yes, I used to
diet with one Reeses and a slice, but I also lost my mind
over a guy who wasn’t worth my damned time. I threw
tantrums when I didn’t get my way. I rushed through every
single day. Couldn’t wait to get older, richer, wiser. “Gave
it up” for a crappy-assed piece of pound cake and last-minute
flowers on my birthday. Yeah, there’s a little extra
in the way in recent years. It softens, but so do fears.
Tubby me might cry because I’m no longer a size 3,
but drama…I let that be.