The first time I was ever called "fat" and subsequently saw myself as such was in kindergarten. I climbed the steps up the schoolyard slide, my friend following behind me, and she smacked my sweat-pant clad ass cheek and said, "Hurry up, big butt."
I spun around, "I don't have a big butt."
"Yes you do, Big Butt."
And suddenly, it seemed my body swelled, expanding and expanding like heated atoms. My booty, a universe of its own. I looked at my sausage-cased thighs all the way down the slide. When my feet hit the mulch, I was a different girl.
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