Why did I invite her?, I think as the ceramic dinner-plate cathunks on the lopsided wooden table, my mind pre-occupied as it runs through the seemingly mile-long to-do list before dinner. Pull chicken. Toss a salad. Do I want salad? How old is that spring mix bag that’s been creeping in the corner of the vegetable drawer? Am I supposed to keep it in there? S***, I think it was BOGO salad mix. There’re two salad bags creeping in the drawer aren’t there? Why do I pretend like I eat that many salads when I’m grocery shopping? I hope those tomatoes aren’t too wrinkly. —GRRRROWWWLL

My stomach interrupts my train of thought, reminding me that we have only eaten an apple so far today. I check the time. The day has gotten away from me. Dinner will be ready in 45 minutes. Anything beyond 7:30pm eating leaves my dinner-guest frenetic and uneasy. If she had it her way we’d be eating at 5:00pm. 

I don’t eat that early. Largely because of work mixed with fact that I don’t have a personal chef who can prepare my meals for peak metabolism times. (Please save any suggestions of meal-prepping for your upbeat neighbor or the eager coworker who has claimed that this is “their year”…I stopped claiming any year to be “my year” thanks to the four year stretch I like to call “Cancer, Covid, and Inner Chaos” and I prefer to procure those black and clear food containers* for my China Palace leftovers rather than for portioning out my protein. Good for them though. I have a coupon if your neighbor/co-worker is interested.)

(*I won’t get paid from any purchases made on this link because I have no sponsors. And because the link doesn’t go anywhere.)

Today, however, I am not eating at 5:00pm out of principle…and because I lost track of time and that’s when I put the chicken in. But mostly because I’m drawing a line. I abided by my guest’s eating rules longer than I care to admit. 

My mind blurs in its duality of support in my decision, simultaneously admitting triumph in my unwavering stance on tonight’s mealtime while overheating in its fixation on making tonight’s dining experience perfect, even though nothing is seemingly ever to my guest’s liking.

She’s an old friend. Though I prefer the term “acquaintance” at this point. We stay in touch but I try to keep my distance. It seems there are a few times a year where we inevitably reconnect, albeit briefly. Surface level conversations rather than a deep rekindling. I’ve worked hard to make sure of that. 

These visits seem to most frequently fall during bouts of unrelenting stress or after I see advertisements for tropical getaways…You’d understand if you met her. Though I hope you never do. 

This particular reunion is courtesy of the New Year. A time when society and the media urgently remind us all of the importance in assembling our to-do lists of self-improvement.  Apparently January 1st marks a clean slate to become everything you have ever wanted to be and more. A  fresh new year to become a better hostess. A better lover. Or most importantly, a better physical representation of the human species. 

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for setting goals. I just prefer they not be impressed upon me by preconceived notions of what I should aspire to look like or be.  The clock struck midnight and my phone was already divulging the secrets as to how I could keep the weight off this year. 

“We know last year was a bust. I mean, look at you. Follow our yellow brick road to success with these three easy tips and the weight will fall off.” Alright, 1) It could be argued that the past couple of years haven’t been great, but it’s not because of what I’ve shoved into my face hole or how many crunches I’ve failed to do. Which I can tell you right now is a lot. What can I say? I’ve discovered that I prefer to not spend my free time looking like an overturned turtle that can’t right itself.  2) I don’t think weight should just “fall off” anyone and if it does, I think that warrants medical attention. Immediately. And 3) Let me just click my heels three times…

Anyways, did I mention my acquaintance is somewhat narcissistic?  Probably not, because who talks like that when introducing someone? Me. I do. Right now. She’s narcissistic. And judgmental…which I realize often results in a bit of a glass-houses situation but it’s true. Trust me.

Once she slithers her way into your life she becomes all consuming, wrapping herself around your brain until she constricts your thoughts into her own. You rewire your mind to alleviate the pressure of insecurity she incessantly whispers into your ear. What to eat. What exercises to do. What to wear so you aren’t aware of the exercises you didn’t do or what you’ve eaten. 

Your chest tightens the minute you step out of the order she has prescribed, as if the whole world you’ve built together will crumble in an instant. As if you’ll be left alone to hold up this mirage of perfection like some superficial Atlas.

Why do you want to keep holding up this illusion of perfection? You forgot the answer to that question early on.

But oh how exhilarating it is when you’ve done right by her. The feeling of superiority and accomplishment wrapping you in its warm scaly blanket. Of telling yourself that you’re safe within the confines of the dangerous box she’s helped you build. Of forgetting what it meant to be free of the mental hoops you now find yourself jumping through every time you dare eat, and every moment in between. 

GRROWWWLLL

My stomach reminds me again that I don’t have much in the tank as I finish setting a fork on the table. If I eat now then I won’t be as hungry for dinner, and then I really shouldn’t have dessert. Am I bringing out the dessert? If no then I might have a snack. She might actually be cool with dessert this time though…  

Since when did having a snack become a three ring circus of deliberation?

Ahh that’s right. I forgot she was the one who trained me into becoming the great mental contortionist that I am. She was the one who taught me how to twist and fold my brain into pretzels all so I would not succumb to eating one. She affixed the handcuffs of food anxiety to my wrists and filled the plexiglass tank in which I stood with equal parts beauty standards and a healthy self-loathing. It was up to me to figure out how to escape.

I just had to realize I wanted to first. 

My lungs burned as they filled with self-contempt. My vision blurred as the tank and my mind were distorted by a clarity of what I lacked. (Her assistant helping clarify with more visual aids than I could wish for in the form of photoshopped magazine covers and skewed clothing sizes.)

Perhaps if I made myself smaller, the handcuffs would fall off?

I did not know this would only make them tighter. 

I should clarify that it has taken years (and the privilege of working with a therapist) to come to the realization of what our relationship was. It has taken years for me to realize the more I tended to her, the more marrow was sucked from my bones, weakening the legs from which I needed in order to stand on my own and walk out of the mental cell I was confined in. It has taken years to mostly untangle the threads of control she had over me.

Not all who’ve met her are as lucky.

I say that I’ve become “mostly” untangled because she doesn’t exactly let you get away with writing her off completely.  She knows the windows of opportunity to make her presence known again and again. She’s known them since we met in high school, when I was a shy 9th grader who was eager to be accepted amidst her tanking self-confidence and spurts of questionable taste. (I’m waiting for the bottle-cap belt and the snake ring that turned my finger green to come back in style…we’re getting close. I can feel it.) 

CLINK! the water glass yelps as it clips the edge of the dinner plate. I am yanked out from the dimly lit corners of my mind where I have once again recessed. (Maybe next time I’m back there I’ll remember the name of that librarian in first grade that smelled like Patchouli and Spearmint…)

As I lean over the table to set a knife next to the plate, I become painfully aware of the snugness of my waistband. Another one of her main teaching points. Maybe that’s why I don’t like fitted pants anymore. I used to love them. Even asked for a pair of bright orange dress pants for Christmas when I was 8. (Because all small children want to look like a traffic cone who’s on a job interview.) Now I prefer to order a size up. Best my legs and waist not feel too loved.

In this acknowledgement, my elbow instinctively touches my hipbone while my hand contorts and lowers to touch the other side of my waist. Some anatomical game of connect the dots that will forever be etched in my mind. A checks-and-balances of physical attraction and mental peace that is inversely proportional to the amount of space between my forearm and waist. A habit I thought we’d long forgotten.

As my index finger presses into my hip, it is not merely my flesh against bone that is pinched. The self-confidence that has slowly been rebuilt over the years is tweaked, and I get the sudden urge to look in a mirror. To turn to the side so I can see what shape I take up in this world and assess wether or not it is suitable. 

For who? I forgot the answer to that question long ago. 

She taught me how to feel more superior the smaller I became. How being asked, “Have you lost weight?,” was a badge of honor, a slight smile always forming in the corner of our mouths as we feigned ignorance…even if there was concern in the eyes of those who asked.

I used to take comfort in her support. The embrace of achievement as the numbers on the scale dropped to 118 pounds…then 108…then 97…Gravity releasing its grasp on me as I ran more and ate less. All while she tightened hers.

My daily eating habits became an opportunity mandate to become a “better” version of myself than the day before…Better as defined by her. At first, better meant less chips and more fruits and vegetables. (Something I might argue is still an admirable goal for anyone privileged enough to curate their diet in this manner.) Then better meant no snacks. (Should have been a red flag…) Then better meant no fat. (Goodbye ice cream, mayonnaise, avocados, and just general happiness.) Then better meant eating just an apple a day. (A habit that would do quite the opposite of keeping the doctors away. Might’ve taken that one a bit too literally.) 

If my diet was a children’s book, it would not be a best-seller. A sort of inverse to the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Instead of the vibrant purples and yellows of grapes and roast beef sandwiches growing into the vibrant reds and pinks of hotdogs and ice cream, it would slowly wither from a vibrant rainbow of childhood favorites into a sole red apple.  

It was a gradual shift in my diet. Something I was able to conceal from the world behind articles espousing how to eat healthier and cross country practice.  Something I was able to conceal from myself behind her praising me every step of the way.

As I stand at the table, my mind wonders which box the scale is hiding in, long dormant from years of retirement. I’ve tried to not care what numbers gravity is wracking up these days. I got tired of checking three times a day. I got tired of trying to stay in my box, or fit into a smaller one like a downsizing hermit crab.

DING! A friend has sent me a picture of the brownies they just made. My stomach growls and my mind lights up. Yes please. My mind dims. We aren’t “indulging” today. My mind pulls. I hate the word “Indulgence.” I know I will make these later and then tell myself we need to stop eating sweets. 

Why? I forgot the answer to that question long ago. Maybe my phone will tell me in a few days time. 

A weight settles in my chest as I think about the time I wasted worrying about my physical appearance. About the time I continue to waste contemplating what I should or shouldn’t eat. About what pant size I should or shouldn’t be. Walls we built long ago to keep us safe. Safe from being undesirable. Safe from being wild. Safe from taking up too much space. 

What difference could we spark if we received greater exposure and encouragement to change the shape of society rather than into what shape society would like us to change? What if I did not worry so much about the air I disrupted with my physical form, and instead considered the disruptions I could make with air in my lungs and the words in my throat?

The concept of “beauty” and what it “looks like” has undoubtedly shifted over the last decade to include more than a size 0, voluptuously preened hair, and piercing eyes. Which, to someone who is not a size 0, has a borderline receding hairline that never quite grew in (I can’t even blame chemo for that), and eyes that squeak when rubbed, is something I acknowledge took far longer than it should have…But I still crave a world in which physical beauty isn’t the topic of conversation. Where bodies (and someone’s worth) aren’t debated in terms of what should be “considered beautiful.”

I crave a world in which they aren’t debated at all. 

I believe it is for this reason that we continue to walk past each other with our knowing glances. The collective understanding of what it means to shape ourselves to fit the mold we were exposed to as children. The verbal support that “all are beautiful,” yet the silent burden of only a select few truly feeling what it means to be “good enough.”

I often forget how stunningly exquisite we are in our sheer design. How many delicate systems need to work in order for our hearts to take a single pulse. For our lungs to fill with air. 

We manage to trivialize this magnificence with a misallocated importance placed on how much fabric we need to cover it up. 

We’ve followed the wrong aesthete for too long. 

It is time we find a new one.

It is time we walk alongside one another and whisper, “Keep taking up your magnificent space.”

We must whisper until we are yelling it.

We must yell until those six words mean more than our bodies.

I wish I could go back and encourage my younger self to do so. I wish I could steer her away from how fragile we would become, when we would attempt to make ourselves smaller and smaller, as if the numbers on the scale were inversely proportional to our worth. When we felt the world preferred us more the less space we took up. 

If only I had whispered to myself long ago. My dinner guest wouldn’t be making her routine appearance if I had. 

BEEEEP BEEEEP the oven alarm un-relents, pulling me once again from the deep corners of my mind. (Mrs. Kirkpatrick? No, that’s not it. Mrs. Gentry?…Maybe I’ll find it next time.)

I realize I am still poised in this antiquated stance, arm draped across my waist. She’ll no doubt remind me that there isn’t as much space between my waist and arm as here used to be. Hell, she already has. Though this thought doesn’t bother me like it used to, it is still a thought I have. 

Why do I even invite her? I think as I lower my arm and move to relieve the oven from its duties. As I walk away from the table I’ve been preparing, I catch a glimpse of myself and the single table-setting in the freckled mirror that’s hung safely out of critique’s way. 

I try to feel the strength of my marrow-filled bones and the innumerable machinations that are contained within the space I hold. 

“Keep taking up your magnificent space,” I whisper to myself, hoping I am loud enough for my guest to hear me.

To anyone reading, keep taking up your magnificent space.