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Do you have any fucking idea how embarrassing it is to get so fat, you can’t even model plus-sized clothing anymore?
Don’t get me wrong, babe—I was never gonna be one of those skinny-armed Kate Moss types—but plus-size modeling? That was supposed to be my shit. I slept, breathed, and ate plus-size fashion…but obviously, I also ate a lot of other shit, too.
It’s fucking crazy how good life gets when you stop thinking of the phrase all you can eat as a challenge.
And now, holy shit. Here I am. Weight goals, baby.
I step off the scale because I can hardly fucking believe it. I look in the mirror instead.
And like, lemme fucking tell you, babe.
That’s pretty weird, too.
The woman I see staring back at me is a bold, beautiful, skinny bitch. She’s got long, dark blonde hair that comes down over her shoulders in messy waves. Her eyes are Barbie Doll blue and behind her cupid’s bow lips?a hint of a smile.
The weird thing is, when I hold my hand up to the mirror, that skinny bitch reaches her hand out to meet mine. When I giggle, she giggles. And when I grin, a smile blossoms on her face, too.
I can hardly fucking believe it.
There’s no way this is me.
I know what I look like. I mean, I’ve seen the pictures. I’m damn fucking aware.
I’m the kind of woman who wears sweatpants because tight little blue jeans cannot contain the bump of my booty. I’m an extended-sizes-only kind of gal. My double chin has its very own double chin—like, seriously!
Not to get all Mulan on you or anything, but who the fuck is this woman in the mirror looking back at me?
It takes me a minute to accept it, but I’ve got to.
This is me now. My body. My face. My cheekbones, which actually look like cheekbones.
And my ass—what the fuck happened to my ass?! It feels like it disappeared overnight.
My jawline…oh my god, I have a jawline.
I’m not gonna lie, babe. I’m kind of fucking hot.
But the woman in the mirror doesn’t look exactly the way I wish she looked, either. She’s skinny…but she’s missing something. Her arms look slender, but they don’t look strong. Her sweatpants are nearly falling off her fucking hips—and I used to love those hips! A wave of nausea hits me—fuck.
I’m everything that I’ve wanted to be for the last two years…and it’s still not enough.
I leave the woman in the mirror to admire her jawline. I’ve got shit to do today, even if that skinny bitch doesn’t.
“So…I reached my goal weight,” I say, emerging from my room in a cute pair of wide-legged pants and a blouse the color of my favorite wine.
My BFF, Holly-Anne, looks up at me from the couch.
“Aww, babe!” she coos, grinning at me from ear to ear. “Proud of you! Come sit down—I’ve already got pizza to celebrate!”
Holly-Anne holds up a slice of pepperoni dripping with orange grease and ooey-gooey cheese. I can smell the garlic on it from all the way across the room.
There’s beer on the coffee table, too—not the light stuff that I’ve become accustomed to, but a full-bodied amber ale from the brewery down
the street.
In fact, that’s not the only thing from the brewery down the street in my apartment right now.
“Hey,” says a ruggedly handsome bearded dude, popping his head up from where he kneels on the floor.
