I stand in front of my closet and stare at the clothes. Nothing designer here, just ordinary shirts and sweaters and jeans and dresses. Any one of them can stop me in my tracks and make me clench my teeth. Who knew fabric could have such power?
Here’s the thing, I’m not a size 6. Actually, even that’s probably considered “heavy” today. This idea of beauty somehow having to do with what I wrap my body saddens and infuriates me. I spend so much time worrying about what size my clothes are and how they fit and how they look, each piece holding a power over me and my emotions.
I allow fabric and labels dictate how I act, because a size 12 or 18 or 24 can’t wear something like that and they certainly should not feel beautiful, right?
After all, beauty is a non-size (thank you size 0). I even saw a dress in a 00 one day. What is a double zero? Maybe we should just make the jump to negative numbers? And if anything about a 16 is plus size, what are those 0’s and 00’s?
It’s emotional, those one or two digits on a folded tag. For something so tiny, they carry a lot of weight.
I hate it. Because I know in my head what they represent, but my heart’s glasses are less rosy. My heart sees sizes differently.
Size “You’re fat”
Size “You’ll never be beautiful”
Size “How do you even zip this?”
Size “Why bother?”
Size “Might as well give up”
Size “Maybe I already have”
I am tired of feeling badly for something I do every day. I’m tired of feeling like a failure. I’m tired of holding on and holding in and pretending.
My clothes may be a size, but I am not.
I am not a size 6 or a 16 or a 26.
I am beautiful.
Just as I am.
All of me.
I am beautiful.
And so are you.
Because we are not a size, we are loved.
So, when I say this enough, and the tears clear and the breath stops catching in my throat. Then I can exhale, “I am not a size.”
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