My body forgot to grow. Back when the uniforms of my female classmates in high school were bursting at the seams because of their newly developed nubile bodies, when those thingies on their chests go flibbertyjigglety during phys ed., my body remained the same – as that of a 12 year old boy (Will the real Lolita please stand up? And they all stood up. Except me). This was my size in high school, in college, until now, and most likely, until the day I die.
I knew that with puberty comes an increase in bra size so I expected it to happen to me… but it never did. Fortunately, I never felt insecure about it. I felt bad about my 5’2″ height but never about the cup size…
…despite my fair share of teasing and comments —
… that if I turned sideways, my shadow would disappear; that I’m flat as a ruler; that my boobies are like raisins or even acne; that I better hold on to posts when I’m outside during storms lest I be blown away.
Now that sizes 0, 1, xs, xxs, and even xxxs are available in the shops, I don’t have to buy from the boys teen section and pretend that I was buying for my imaginary nephew anymore. I do still have a hard time buying clothes that fit nicely. Just some time ago, I was shopping for pants with my mom, sister and aunt. My aunt asked what size I was and I said I was a zero. “Is there even such a size?” She sez, surprised.
I found out that I was a size zero years ago, just fresh off from college, during my vacay in America and I was shopping for clothes (ooh, my, my, saucy aren’t we?). My male cousin remarked, “Size zero? How can there be a size zero? That means you have no dimension!” ouch. Size 0 = nil = non-existent = no brain = no thought = no witty comeback for that one.
People just wouldn’t stop remarking about my being skinny. Some of the spiteful ones who should worry about their own weight problems would say that I’d expand like they did when I get older and get pregnant, maybe to make them feel good about themselves. I don’t think so.
It’s not that I didn’t try to gain weight. I enrolled in a gym, underwent weights training for a few months. The gym instructor promised me some pounds but I remained the same size. I did have more toned muscles and it made me feel kinda sexy. I stopped because my annual membership expired, the fee is a bit expensive, and I got bored. I also used to run a lot, back when Fun Runs were still sort of unheard of.
Sure, I’m underweight. But I’m healthier than most of my colleagues. It beats being the opposite, I admit.
I do embrace my skinny thighs and my boobies, if I can find them. I get to fit into extra small sizes effortlessly (ahem!). I can wear almost anything. Most clothes, that is, if I find the right fit, look good on me. A low neckline or a pair of skimpy shorts wouldn’t make me look skanky; my built is too boyishly unappealing for that.
Plus being petite makes me look and feel young.
I admit, too, it’s not like I have a choice. I have to live with this skinny a** and I’m going to love it. It’s just a matter of perspective. And the good thing about growing older is that my self-image improves with age.
And let’s face it. I have something most people don’t and wished they did — a Speedy Gonzales metabolic rate that allows me to stuff my face with as much pasta and sweets as I want.
We all come in different shapes and sizes. It’s pointless to compare one body built to another. Let’s just feel good about ourselves.
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Forty Eleven Thousand Things 