Let me start by saying that I’ve never been fat, at least not in any conventional sense. I don’t have stretch marks, a muffin top, or carry excess baby weight.
My highest weight was just 139 pounds and that was when I was nine months pregnant. I was the girl who carried “cute” — no swollen feet, pudgy cheeks, or puffed-up ass.
I was the girl with the little basketball belly; I was the girl you couldn’t tell was pregnant from behind. But just because I was small then and am small now (full disclosure, I’m 5 feet tall and, on a good day, weigh 102 pounds), doesn’t mean I’m not fat.
Correction: that doesn’t mean I don’t see myself as fat.
I’m not vain. I rarely wear makeup, my skincare regimen is nonexistent, and I frequently leave my house in oversized jeans and a saggy t-shirt. But when it comes to my body, I’m self-conscious — self-concious to the core.