Isn't it strange, how one little sentence can stick with you longer than you'd expect?
I've had some trouble in the midsection department as of late. As in, 80% of my clothes don't fit. I'm fine, I'm not sobbing, or even signing up for a year-long Weight Watchers plan because it has a bigger discount than month-to-month. I'm taking the news like a man: I ate some wonderful things this summer, my pants don't fit, and I just need to take exercising more seriously.
But last night, after I responded with "It's the only thing that fits!" to my friend's wide-eyed glance at my boobular dress, she exclaimed, "Oh, you always say that!" You always say that. And she's right. Six weeks ago, I said the exact same thing to her in the exact same way, and nothing's changed. Not a thing.
I woke up this morning, after three slices of late-night pizza and enough watery cocktails at Bowery Ballroom to capsize a rowboat, and kept thinking about those words, on repeat, as I got dressed. There I was again, standing in front of a rack of beautiful things for another person to wear. A person who a few months ago wouldn't be anxiously waiting for tights season so she could utilize that bonus girdle-top. A person, for christ and closet's sake, I will hopefully return to be in due time.
Instead of dressing like a homeless NYU student as I've been doing the past two months, I put on a short, sequined dress and a sweater that wouldn't turn me into a well-dressed chorizo — an amount of effort for someone who works at home and is running out for tampons and bananas is equivalent to attending a celebrity-sponsored marriage rights gala — and got on the elevator to begin my errands safari, only to hear:
(The doorman, ladies and gentlemen, playing the part of my father in tonight's performance of "Oh, Carlye.")
I slumped down the street, thinking "Is this too short? Can people see my vagina? Do I look like a doughnut covered in a pile of glitter?" At one point, I looked enviously at the pregnant lady in a Breton shirt walking past because she had an excuse for her belly. An excuse. For her belly. And then, without an explosion or Clueless-like revelation, I simply walked into Gourmet Garage, got my things, and decided I've had enough.
I'm not going to plug in other peoples' unintentionally significant words into my inner thoughts, looping them over and over in my analytical brain in circles of negativity until another one comes along and slots itself in its place. If a sentence is going to be ringing in my ears, it had better be a positive one. I hate to say I learned a life lesson from a movie involving fat shaming, coke dependency and the world's worst friends, but as Kirsten Dunst says in Bachelorette: Fuck everyone. Fuck it, fuck it all, fuck thinking I look like a doughball when, really, I'm the only person telling myself that, mushing phrases from the outside world into what my stupidly sad conscience wants them to be.
It's like making a Play-Doh hamburger out of colored putty. I can mold it into anything I want it to be and make it look like something else, but it's not real. I created it, and it's entirely pointless. I'm going to focus on reality from now on — real talk, real thoughts, and real food. Quite literally, in this respect, because it's finally time to eat lunch.