“I’m not short, I’m fun-sized!” would mean a lot more if fun-sized candy was, well, fun. But it isn’t. It’s just enough sugar to set off your inner two year old. Like a dog’s first taste of blood. “This half a bite of Butterfinger was so delicious! I’m going to eat five hundred more, now.” That’s not fun, that’s diet suicide.
And because I’m short (5’2″, thanks mom), the few ounces of weight gain that occur after eating the fun-sized equivalent of 10 candy bars look like ten pounds. And it’s a crap-shoot where it will end up. Sometimes I luck out and it goes to my boobs. I feel like an eight year old who has stuffed her mom’s bra with toilet paper while playing dress-up in her closet. Look at me! I Am A Woman! Other times it travels straight to my lower half, and I move from She With The Blessed Assurance to Wow, Are We Sure Kassie Isn’t Pregnant? (I’m not, I was just filling the halloween baskets, okay?). I took a contemporary dance class last week, and in the middle of attempting a wicked cool contact improv move, my partner’s words to me were: “I’m trying, but you just don’t have enough leg.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that, Mister, I could afford this surgery.
I love my body! It does some pretty cool ish. Quad pirouettes en pointe? Hours-long walks through Manhattan in stilettos? Chasing a three year old across post-apocalyptic style playgrounds with an infant attached to my hip? Create a perfect biological environment to grow humans every single month? No problem. Rock a mini dress and look more glamour waif than off-season gymnast? Probably not your gal.
Look, you guys. I try to be a good feminist. I trigger warn like it’s going out of style. I felt a twinge of guilt when I opened this paragraph with “guys” as a gender not-so-neutral pronoun (blame it on T-Rex, not The Man). We should all be happy with how we were created and fight the cultural machine that tells us we have to be 5’9 to be beautiful, Down With Body Shaming, etc. But I just had to chop an entire foot — AN ENTIRE FOOT — of fabric off of a new pair of jeans in order to wear them without tripping down the subway stairs and subsequently smashing my face into urine-soaked concrete. I’m a little bitter at the cosmic gene pool. I’ve tried to work on body acceptance by only wearing flats, but that makes kissing difficult. And in the battle between body positivity and easy kissing, kissing is gonna win for me every time, forgive me Gloria Steinem.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to run through Central Park without glaring at the legs that are as long as 3/4 of my total height like they were personally put on this earth to irritate me (that’s called utilitarianism, and it’s a really shitty way to treat other humans, FYI). Until then, I take comfort in knowing that if aliens invade tonight, I’m probably not their top choice for the space population program. Which is a good thing, because my
voodoo vagina magic NFP chart says I’m ovulating, and I’m not ready for a little green spaceling.