One by One Inch
That beautiful dress, that damn beautiful dress made from what I felt like should be gold. They attach a name brand to it and a particular size and then they tell you, based on your actual size, that you can’t have it. As I stare at this amazing piece of wearable art, I notice the elaborate stitching as well as the crystals laced around the bodice. Who the hell could fit in something so small anyway? I grow hateful towards the beautiful light blue hue of the damned thing. As my breath catches on the cold window in Times’ Square, the dress becomes blurry. I lift my hand to wipe away the darkness of my hot breath and notice my hand, bigger than most women. I tower over the actual window and feel gigantic and misplaced. My mouth forms a scowl as my bright red hair gleams in the sun. The battle within myself has begun again. Is plus size not normal? Are my blue eyes bright enough to mask my larger body frame? Unable to assume I could even fit in that dress, I notice mine. Simple. Such a simple sun dress, cut off at the shoulders, down to my ankles. Had I been covering up my true self my whole life? It felt that way at least, as I toiled and trolled over my reflection. I slowly realize I hadn’t hated the dress or the designer: I hated myself. But how can the crème color of my soft skin be disgusting? How can I not see myself the way I should be seen? Am I not a beautiful creation despite my reflection? The sun gleams and I walk along.