For as long as I can remember, I’ve compared myself to other women.

I’ve placed a large percentage of my self-worth on my physical appearance

The bathroom scale can determine whether my day will be good or bad

No shiny surfaces go unchecked for stray hairs

Or visible panty lines

Embarrassing blemishes

I have a self-rating system for how presentable I look on any given Tuesday

I hate the humidity for every bullshit wave it puts in my blow-dried straight hair

I don’t tuck things into my pants for fear of a waistline a la Oompa Loompa

I abstain from bikini waxes because I can’t imagine letting the skinny, little Asian see my thick thighs

I cower when someone randomly whips out their camera at parties

I’d rather volunteer to take the group picture

Than become part of the Kodak moment.

(I secretly dread that when my time finally comes and I’m lying in my closed casket, there won’t be any pictures to eulogize me with)

I refuse to let my office post my head shot next to my bio on our website

And I wholeheartedly believe in romantic “leagues.”

So many say

“That’s foolish”

“Just be confident”

I can’t help but wonder who the fuck they think they’re kidding

I haven’t lived a day of my adult life when I haven’t felt ranked and filed into the appropriate physical category.

I have anxiety attacks every time I have to walk across a crowded bar to use the restroom

I stare at the dinge-dirty carpeting for all three stops riding the Metro in the morning

And only make eye-contact on the way back if I’m lucky enough to be stoned on pricey vodka

I wear sunglasses even after dusk beckons me to remove them.

After all, what they can’t see

They can’t judge.

I prefer wearing skirts on dates I think may end in an intimate encounter

Most would assume it’s simply a means to an easier access

But really, it’s purely strategic

If I let them remove my heels

And blouse

Bra

And panties

They’re satiated

Enough clothes have been taken off for sexiness to occur

But the skirt stays on, hiked around my waist

Hiding my belly bulge

They never know

They just presume me eager

The reality remains my own pathetic little secret.

I turn the lights off when I fuck

And make sure there’s a blanket near by to cover my fattier parts

As much as I’d like to take a lover up on that long, hot, steam-filled shower

I refuse

Normal people fear things like death and public speaking

I fear male revulsion

The minute they see me standing up-right and stark naked before them

Lucky for me, baths are more enticing via candlelight

Bubbles provide remarkable cover

Sexual camouflage is the name of my game

It’s the getting in

And getting out of the tub

That poses the biggest dilemma.

I often wonder what it’s like

To ride in the backseat of a taxi cab with the windows rolled all the way down

Without the final five minute struggle to fix my face.

Or what it’s like to go on a long bike ride on a DC summer day

Without finding shame in my helmet hair.

To wear pastels in the late springtime

Butt-sweat be damned.

To own my D-cup breasts

Minus the cover of cashmere

Or uplift courtesy a secret held via Vicky.

I long for tank tops that defy my Jello jiggles.

I pray for chubby chasers.

And legally-blind boys.

I crave leg men

Even if I stand before them in all my scarred, knobby kneed glory.

I want for breast men

Regardless of my droop.

I well-wish with dimes and quarters

For the boy who will look into my blue eyes

Unembellished with requisite eye shadow enhancements

And mascara-drawn drama.

For the day I deign bare-colored cheeks

And liquid-free lips.

And notice of my peach-fussed face.

I strive to suck his fingers

Without worrying my double-chin

Rebuffs his lust.

I want to dance

And sweat in all the spots

Not enticing.

I want to fornicate

Without innocuous injury

To his retinas.

I want to learn to love my pretty porcine.

And own my ordinary.