my thighs touch, and that’s okay.



i’ll never forget the time walking to dinner on a hot summer afternoon that the remark was made in reference to the sweaty blisters that were beginning to form on the inside of my thighs.



“i’m really glad i’m not heavier. i’d hate to have my shorts ride up on my legs as i walked”.



i looked down.



she shrugged.



advancing in conversation, “if you were my size that wouldn’t happen.”



mild in form, but not the first time weight was compared between the two of us, and the beginning of an uncomfortable end.



size zero, chesty, and constantly comparing herself to others and tearing me down in the process; she compared me to others.



zipping me up for an evening affair—“you should’ve bought a bigger size”.



false. i should’ve replaced the impossible zipper.



i should’ve left you at home.

a handful of new shirts come in the mail, i offer her a number of older ones i had never worn—“oh, are you too big for them”?



to be completely honest, no. they were unflattering and loose—more her style than mine.



i enjoy exercise, my campus houses one of the biggest gyms in the country; the way it feels to run a mile with pandora on blast is freeing and a much needed breath of fresh air as the world around me disappears. while i prefer to go it alone, she received the occasional invite.

“what? are you trying to lose weight or something”?



a simple nod would’ve sufficed.



perhaps the worst was whenever she’d meet someone new and try to describe them to me. she couldn’t tell me what they liked, who they were, how they met—but instead would choose to tell me their height, the shape of their face, and always their weight in comparison to my own.



“she’s in my class, pretty cool.. kind of a round face, she’s about your size, maybe a little heavier”.



because i’m heavy weighing in at 133.7 lbs. #society

size four, can wear a training bra on any given day, and i’m still certain she’s certifiably blind.



i’m twenty, 5’2”, content with my weight, fine with my size, not perfect. i’m human.



why are we constantly comparing ourselves to others? aware of the consequences, consciously disappointed, ashamed, jealous, disturbed even, and we still do it every day.



“i wish i looked like her”.

“i wish i looked like him”.

“she must wear a double zero. i’ll never be that small”.

“i’ll never be that pretty”.

“how does she stay that fit”?

“she’s so perfect”.

“maybe if i ate less”..

“maybe if i threw up just a little more”..

we’re hurting ourselves and we don’t care. society is the enabler and we don’t budge. we’re stuck in a generation where the infamous “thigh gap” is normality and any lack of photoshop is unheard of. i am not an advocate for those who shout that “big is beautiful”, or those who stand against skinny-shaming, i’m pretty average and an advocate for being human.



that’s it.