Tucks of skin trickled out from a Pink, tropical bikini top. My half-naked body glared back at me from the unforgiving gleam of a fitting room mirror as I modeled a two-piece suit, gripped to the grooves of my body.
It was the day every woman dreads, the day we wish we hadn't eaten that cheesecake the night before, the day we regret skipping last week's workouts, the day we subject our naked bodies to bright lights and full-length mirrors. It was bathing suit shopping day. Staring perplexed at my reflection, I tugged at the corners of bikini number twelve. Eleven failed attempts at finding a sexy suit swung from plastic hangers on the hook of the door.
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"Well, how's it looking?" my best friend Pamela asked from outside the door.
"Flat, saggy, and hopeless," I thought to myself as I took one last look.
At the time, I was running four miles a day, panting through countless crunches, and bleeding sweat on the Stairmaster at the gym, and for what? Well, like every other woman in America, I wanted to feel sexy. But more than that, I wanted to look sexy for my soon-to-be husband. I was two months from getting married. My hunt for sultry lingerie and swimsuits for our Cancun honeymoon had sent me into hysterics.
Nothing fit right. My breasts looked as shapeless as deflated beach balls and had the texture of tissue paper. My tummy was scarred with spidery stretch marks and excess skin. 7 Greatest Things About Having A Small Chest
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Three years before, I'd had epic breasts. Robust double Ds had poured forth from my voluptuous V-neck when I weighed my heaviest: 230 lbs. But despite the bounty beneath my brassiere then, guys wanted nothing to do with me. They say that "it's what's on the inside that counts," but years of dateless Friday nights made me feel as hollow as the empty tube of Pringles at my bedside. Inner Beauty: What Men Don't Tell You
At nineteen years old, I had never been kissed. My girlfriends said I just hadn't found "the one," but I was convinced it was because I was big.