Taking off my dress, I look in the full length mirror. Two feet, ankles that roll in a little, sturdy calves, dimpled knees, thighs that touch. Ugh. Thighs aren’t supposed to touch, they’re supposed to glide past each other like lovers snubbing each other at a party held by mutual friends. Thighs are meant to pivot from the hips like bits of utilitarian Meccano instead of pashing right underneath my cunt in a sweaty mess.
My hips, best dressed in black as Charlotte advised, are certainly the widest part of me. Flesh coils up sneakily around my sides and sits on my stomach, folding upon itself at my navel. These breasts, conceivably the only benefit of being fat, sit upon my upper stomach. In a bra they corral a decent cleavage, enough to make me smirk and nod with a small degree of self-satisfaction when I do that final mirror check before going out on the town.
This is from my first attempt at NaNoWriMo. It’s about being fat and the transformative power of radical fat activism. The beginning is bumming me out because it feels so wrong.