Vanity

I am guilty of the sin of vanity.

If I pass a window, I stop and fix my hair.

I focus on my reflection in my laptop screen even now.

I can see my round tired eyes.

I can see my eyebrows that recovered from my excess plucking in middle school.

I can see my bouncy casual curls, pushed back by my $5 sunglasses from Walgreens.

My breasts look good today in this shirt.

Especially if I stretch my arms above my head.

This shirt used to be my mother’s.

But vanity is not admiration.

Vanity is obsession.

I am sick of myself.

Body horror, if you will.

I counted three new stretch marks on the top of my bulging stomach yesterday.

Is two pounds a lot?

To gain, yes.

To lose, no.

I catch glimpses of myself in my mirrored closet door.

I’m always hunched.

It’s gotten to the point where if I sit up straight for too long, my muscles ache and tremble.

If I plant my feet on the ground and sit in a chair, my legs will shake uncontrollably.

If I lay on the floor, my neck is crooked and my back is arched.

I can’t straighten my knees.

I have a box in my closet of all my favorite clothes.

None of them fit me anymore.

A pair of jeans I once bought because they gapped around my waist and flowed around my thighs.

They don’t button anymore.