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Which makes me think that he wants toactuallymake sure that I leave.
“I just,” I begin haltingly, pulling my coat even tighter around my body to ward off this crazy chill that’s made a home in my bones, “I want you to know that I don’t, uh, make a habit of… this. Coming over on my days off. I mean, you probably already know but still. I’m sorry that I did that today. I’m… You’re obviously going somewhere and I got in your way and… Well, I hope you enjoy your evening with…” I widen my eyes fractionally while his narrow a little. “Well, I hope you enjoy and I don’t —”
“The door’s that way,” he states, jerking his chin in that direction.
And I die.
Or I wish I was dead.
It least makes me wish that I wasn’t in love with a guy who obviously can’t stand to be in my presence for a second longer than necessary. Who’s so obviously turned off by everything that’s me. And the worst part is that I can’t even blame him, can I?
I’m not the type of girl that guys fall for.
Much less a guy like him.
* * *
So the first thing to understand here is that I’m not trying to put myself down.
When I say I’m not the kind of a girl that a guy falls for, I’m not trying to be a martyr or indulging in self-hatred.
I’m simply trying to be realistic.
Like I always am.
While my heart sometimes spins like a svelte and limber ballerina when I see the love of my life, the rest of my body can’t. The rest of my body is more… rounded and cumbersome.
And curvy.
Also a size twelve.
Okay, fourteen.
I’m a size fourteen.
Which is a mystery to me because my mom and my sisters are hardly over a size six. They have delicate bones and slender limbs. While I, on the other hand, have broad and large andbigeverything: broad hips, big ass, big boobs and large thighs that no, do not have a gap between them. And on top of all that, I also have rolls in my tummy.
People could say that I have a small waist.
But that’s only because the rest of me is simply so big that my waist seems that way.
In any case, I’ve always been a curvy girl.
Ever since I was little.
I was the one with dark curly hair, big brown eyes, a button nose and cheeks as rounded as the rest of my body. Who not only stood out like a fat thumb in her family of mostly dark blondes and slender bodies but also in other places. There were jeers in school, derisive laughter on the playground. There was even some bullying in gym class and some vulgar remarks thrown my way when I climbed up the stairs or cycled down the street.
But I was fortunate enough to have a mother who stood up for me.
For all her kookiness, she never made me feel different or less-than in our family. She taught me to love myself. That it doesn’t matter what I look like. I’m worthy and I’m beautiful.
And I know I am.
I do.
Or at least I knownow.
After years of positive affirmation from my mother and love from my siblings, after years of curbing my negative self-talk and accepting that if people look at me differently, it reflects on them and not on me, I know I’m good enough.
