At first I bemoaned my lost hotness. I didn't want to be that chubby, plain girl again who the boys ignored. I wanted skinny me back. I upped my workouts, tried to eat less, and bought overpriced serums and elixirs that promised "radiance," "brightness," and "perfection." Has any of it worked? Dunno. If it has, it's been slow going.
Of course none of this makes any difference to Alex. I'm still his "pretty girl." He still likes to sling me over his shoulder like I'm a sack of flour. "I'm too heavy now!" I tell him, and he looks at me like I'm nuts.
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"You feel the same," he says. "And even if you're not, I think you're the only one who cares."
He's right. I'm the only who stares at the reflection of my increasingly saggy butt, the cellulite on my hips and thighs. It's just me who peers in the mirror at each sunspot and fine line.
Maybe I should take a cue from Xtina and tell myself I'm beautiful, no matter what. Remind myself that beauty is arbitrary. One moment heroin chic is in, the next it's Scarlett Johansson-voluptuousness. A celebrity thinks her frozen forehead, stretched-out face, and giant duck lips look great while the rest of us see a freak show.
Or maybe I should just accept that I'm not beautiful, not as defeat but a fact of life. I'm also not a musical prodigy, a math genius, or an Olympic athlete, and I'm not crying about that.
Or maybe I should take beauty out of the equation completely. Maybe it shouldn't even be part of what adds up to who I am.
Maybe I should stop leaning on skinny me for security and try to find real security that remains unchanging, no matter what I look like. Let skinny me go. Maybe she'll be back, and I'll welcome her with open arms, but I won't wait around for her. I have better things to do.
Written by Angela Tung for The Frisky