The Good Body

When I was younger, some adults would ask me what I want to be when I grow up.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Good. I want to be good.
If I couldbe good, everything would be all right. I would fit in. I would be popular. I wouldskip death and go straight to heaven.
In recent years, good girls join the Army. They climb the corporate ladder. They accessorize. They wear pointy, painful shoes. They don't eat too much. They don't eat at all. They stay perfect. They stay thin. I could never be good. This feeling of badness lives in every part of my being.
What I can't believe is that someone like me could spend this much time thinking about my stomach. It has become my tormentor, my distracter. It has protruded through my clothes, my confidence, and my ability to work. I've tried to sedate it, educate it, embrace it, and most of all, erase it.
Everywhere, the women I meet generally hate one particular part of their bodies. They spend most of their lives fixing it, shrinking it. they lose all sight of the world.

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