Pudgy. Soft. Plump. A Womanly Figure.

The above words? Got em.

I can remember being a prepubescent 14 year old, 112 lbs, and worried about the size of my inner thighs. That was nearly 10 years ago. I’ve been body conscious/body self-conscious for nearly ten years. I know, for a fact, that the thought “You need to lose weight” has entered my mind at least once a day ever since I was 14 years old.

How pitifully sad.

There are moments though, where I think, “I’m totally okay with being my size. Who needs the over commercialized ‘perfect’ body? I don’t need a smaller body to prove my self worth. I’m nice. I travel. I’ve got some close friends. I’ve never killed anyone. I’m a vegetarian. I recycle. I’m volunteering in a Third World Country. I type 80wpm. I graduated second in my class, with honours. I can drink beer with the boys and not live off lettuce. Why would I need to be THIN to be happy?”

Those moments are few and far between, always being spoiled with “You’d be SO much happier if you were 15 pounds lighter!”

So, I eat more junk food than I probably should. Wait, scratch that. I don’t actually eat that much junk food. I hardly eat ice cream, chocolate, potato chips, French fries, or bread. Here, I don’t eat processed food besides the odd cookie or something else sweet. I SHOULD, on the other hand, be a little more active. It’s not that I’m lazy… when I was still living in Halifax, I walked to and from work nearly every day (45 min each way), and liked it. I liked going on bike rides with my boyfriend, even though my thighs and lungs killed me afterwards. Even if I got red in the face and felt like fainting, I still liked it. I’m a little out of shape, I’ll admit it.

I’m obsessed. I think it’s unhealthy. I don’t know how to stop.

Okay, so I do know how to stop. I get off my ass and doing something about it. I stop eating so much sugar, and I do some damn exercises. But I LIKE sugar, and I DON’T like exercising! I always think, well, maybe when I… go to Africa, travel around Europe again with Peter, break up with this person, move to this place, turn 20, turn 24, have this dress to fit into, get married… that’s when I’ll be thin.

I thought this way when I was 112 pounds, when I ballooned up to 157 pounds, when I lost 20 pounds in six weeks, when I hover around 147 pounds or 135 pounds. I’m never happy.

I’ve never had an eating disorder. I don’t purge, I don’t starve, I don’t binge. Unless you call this “out of control” feeling an eating disorder…. Which, sometimes it definitely feels like. I’ve never even really been on a diet.

Hips and tits. I’ve got them. I don’t want them, but I’ll be damned if I’ll do anything about it. How do I stop this?!

I have no idea how big I actually am. I’ve gotten in the habit of asking friends and boyfriends to point out chicks in the mall who are as big as I am- just so I can see what I look like from an unbiased point of view. In the mornings, I look at myself in the mirror, do a little sucking in, stand at an angle that’s flattering and think to myself, “This is okay. I look fine! What was I thinking?” But by nighttime, I’m back to the mirror, brushing my teeth and wondering if my pants fit like that a couple of months ago. “Didn’t they hang looser around my hips? Were my thighs always this big? Where did my ass go?” I go to sleep feeling fat and useless.

Every. Single. Day.