When I'm Thin

When I'm thin,

I'll be able to go into any store at the mall without wondering if they carry my size.

Taking the stairs instead of the elevator won't give me an anxiety or asthma attack.

Roller coasters and amusement parks will bring me more fun and excitement than dread and resentment.

People won't think I'm starving or depriving myself when I tell them I'm just not hungry.

Summertime will mean bikinis and swimming at the beach, not a one-piece suit under a t-shirt and cloth shorts.

Mothers of small children won't have to apologize to me when their child asks if I'm expecting a baby.

I'll walk through a building with narrower halls and not have worry about bumping into someone every 3 seconds.

The drive-thru worker handing me my bag won't think less of me and view me as an endless calorie pit.

Sideways glances and lack of interest from men everywhere will turn into dropped jaws and avid flirting.

Distant relatives and old high school friends will stop saying that I was and I am "pretty for a bigger girl."

I won't have to worry about how strangers and new people I meet judge me by my weight but judge me by my actions.

Friends will stop sugar-coating things when I ask them how I look in order to protect what little self-confidence I have.

My sisters and I will be able to swap clothes, share scandalous secrets, and bond as sisters do.

I can get a second helping or dessert without getting the evil eye from my mother and the disappointed sigh from my father.

My lover won't feel the need to remind me that I'm beautiful to him and that I am worth it.

My rolly mountains of jelly layered in etched stretch marks will transform into smooth, curved valleys of skin.

I will be able to sit comfortably in a car, plane, bus, desk, movie theater, and anywhere that has a seat.

There will be less of me in the world, and I'll finally be enough.