The utmost girly question.

Do you think I’m fat?

How many times have you heard a girl ask that? Once? Ten times? One hundred times? Once a day? I know I’ve asked that question a few times a week since I realised people actually care about what you look like (I think I was about 11 years old). Eleven?! That’s not even old enough for Middle School. But, now at 22, why should I still care? Because people comment. People say things, and even if they’re trying to help, they end up hurting.

I know I am a very pretty girl. I have beautiful eyes, my face is somewhat symmetric, I take time to do my hair, and I have cheekbones. “Enough, Kristin!” you say. “We know you love yourself.” Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? I know I’m 160 lbs, and only 5’6″. That’s (barely) over the limit for how much I should weigh. But at the same time, I can run a 7 minute mile, I can leg press more than my body weight, and I feel as though I’m a fairly decent soccer player. So why am I fat? Well, according to not most, but all of my friends, I’m not. So why does my mum say I am? Because she has a body image problem. The most she’s ever weighed was 135, and she says, “Oh, I had to have worn a size 12! Bla bla bla.” Well, news flash, I wear a 10-12, and you can hardly say you were my size. She’s not all that much shorter than me either, at a scant 5’4″. She’s like a rod in real life… very bony everywhere. Steven and Leo are that way too. Dad was really tall and skinny when he grew up, and still has chicken legs despite having a huge gut. I’m just not built like they are (for some strange reason, I’m also not a towhead and have blue eyes like they do either…) So why does she feel the need to pick on me?

“You’ve gained 15 lbs since you’ve been at OSU!”
“Yes… the freshman 15 have yet to go away.”
“But you lost all of that when you had your tonsils out.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t eat for two weeks. You’d lose 15 lbs too.”
“I just think you should try to lose weight.”
“You think I’m running for fun or something? Seriously, when was the last time you ran a 5k?”
“Well I probably couldn’t.”
“That’s right. And muscle weighs more than fat.”
“You still need to-“

It just went on and on! Now that my ego is thoroughily squished and snuffed from existence, I want to go crawl under a rock and die. Just yesterday I thought I looked hot in my soccer shorts. I was even checked out at the gym. This morning before church, I was told I looked gorgeous by someone whoI know wouldn’t lie to me. So, coming from him, that means the most. But now… I don’t even feel like I can run in shorts. I’m probably going to drag my capris out and wear those for the rest of the summer. Skirts? Forget it. I’m too fat. Why would she do something like that right after I’ve had to cancel wedding plans and had the worst upset anyone could ever have? You know, I really do appreciate her honesty, but for god sakes woman, don’t tell me now!!! I can’t handle crap like that now!

Looks like the beach is out for me. I was going to go to San Gregorio beach when I get home in a few weeks to go play some volleyball and to build sand castles and such, but now I don’t feel as though I can even wear a swimsuit. Has it really come down to that?

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