“... oh and I picked you up a magazine, it’s over there somewhere.”
The bag crinkled as I reached inside, my fingers sliding over the jam jars and plastic wrappers. The magazine was this week’s edition, the latest of all things celebrity related, the rumours that are made up without a second’s thought and the pictures that required hour’s worth of stalking to snap.
She stood tall and proud, hand on the line of her hip, fingers pressed against the silver sequins that someone had taken the time to sew into her dress. I ran my palm down the silk of the page, outlining the curves of her figure. The dress was short enough to reveal the length of her legs, thighs touching down to her knees. Her golden tan glistened. I flipped the page and the palm trees waved to me, ocean water sparkling like her eyes. A full body picture lit up the page. I had to blink before I understood that the stretch marks that wove their way up her stomach and legs were real. I couldn’t even see her ribcage through her body. Countless pictures filled the sheets, women with hips that curved outwards like a wine glass, smiles that hinted at the idea of a double chin, stomachs that flaunted rolls.
I threw the magazine to the side and eyed my reflection with a blurred vision. I pressed my feet together until they were numb, but the gap between my thighs was still there. I ran my hands down the sides of my body, waiting for a curve that would never come. "There's nothing to grab onto," the boys would say. I shook my arms and expected them to jiggle. They didn’t. I searched for stretch marks but all I could see were the tears that stained my cheeks.
Why couldn’t I look like them? Why couldn’t I be like the girls in the magazines?