The moment of truth. And despair.

If you start reading this and think, “Wow, I just can’t relate,” then please stop reading it. Because I hate you. Seriously.

That means you, skinny sister of mine. That means you, friend who got a boob job so her waist would look smaller.

Yo-yo friend who has gained a little weight since last summer? Keep reading. You’re okay.

This is the thing. I have said it before – I am not fat, I am not skinny. I am healthy. I’m pretty strong, I’m a pretty fast runner, my cholesterol is excellent. (Weirdly excellent; my doctor always hugs me and gets teary over my lipid profile, and this isn’t the doctor friend of mine. It would even be weird if my friend got teary over just about anything physical with me.) I’ve been built the same way for a long time, and yes, I can gain or lose some weight, but basically I always look pretty much the same. And I’ve never been fat.

Or so I thought.

Until my (ridiculously skinny, bikini-wearing-all-the-time-probably-even-to-church) sister–in-law (not the good hugger. This one is nicer than the good hugger but her hugs, frankly, are a little lacking) sent some pictures from the beach. Out of 300, most are really great. Cute pictures of the kids, some good family pictures. And one picture of me, standing on the beach, from behind.

Well, damnit, why didn’t anyone ever TELL me I have a fat ass?

How am I supposed to know that if no one tells me? I don’t have a hall of mirrors in my house. I know I have big boobs, because I can SEE them. But that gigantic butt? Wow. Never knew.

(Thanks for the stupid picture. I thought I was getting over my midlife crisis and you plunged me right back into it. Skinny stinker.)

So I asked Whit.

“Am I fat?”

Wary look as he gauged where I was going.

“No.” (Okay, decisive enough, quick enough, I believe him.)

“Do I look fatter than normal?”

(I can see him thinking, “Oh, shit, don’t I have to get to work?”)

Deep breath. “You’re not fat, and you don’t look fatter than normal.”

“Have the body pump classes at the gym made me thick?”

Enthusiastic, encouraged that he might be almost done, looking as hopeful as a kid who just knows he has the right answer in math class:

“Not at all!”

Good boy.

“You know, you’ve always been a little thick through your hips and thighs. Body pump has nothing to do with it.”

Oh, no.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve quit while you were still alive.

I wheeled around. Shouting. (Okay, fine, just in my head.)

“Hips and thighs, Whit? Well, hmm, guess those thick hips came in handy when I was BIRTHING YOUR CHILDREN. Think that nine-pounder could have survived in a waif’s womb? No siree. Jerk.”

Then I thought, “Oh my God, is my only defense that I have good CHILDBEARING hips? That’s supposed to make me feel better? Perhaps if I was still bearing children, but I’m not, so now they’re just wide.”

Total despair. Even if the picture lied, Whit didn’t. And giant Jack’s healthy existence doesn’t.

Now I’m depressed about my thickness. But I didn’t eat breakfast before I got depressed, so now I’m hungry.

Sigh.

Today’s not off to a great start.