I may have mentioned ... one or two ... hundred times ... that I'm not a slight, waiflike creature.
I may NOT have mentioned (at least, I don't think I did) that I once was such a thing. Despite my sturdy peasant DNA, I once weighed about 109 pounds. This weight was achieved through a lovely combination of anorexia and exercise bulemia, and let me tell you something, people: I looked BAD.
How bad, you ask?
More than once, a well meaning person (and one not so well meaning person) asked me if I had cancer. Fun.
My own mother didn't recognize me a couple of times. I was a bridesmaid in a wedding. I walked down the aisle. My mom was like, Where on earth is Danielle? And who is that atrociously thin girl? Good times.
I had to shop at GapKids because adult clothing no longer fit. Yippee.
I would would wake up with bruises because I had no body fat. That's right. I would sustain injuries while SLEEPING because my bones -- especially my hip bones -- had no padding and the act of rolling over would cause me to bruise. Painfully.
Is that enough fun for you? No? How about this, then. My hair was falling out. I was experiencing some system failure -- as in, my metabolism was jacked up. As in, the -- how to say delicately -- the female reproductive cycle? Not working. As in, constantly exhausted and no longer possessing an immune system.
Doesn't that sound pretty? It's SO pretty, right?
I can never undo some of the damage that I did to my body. NEVER. Which is why it is now very difficult for me to lose weight, and which is ALSO why I have to be kind of careful of how I go about doing it.
So the next person who tells me that I'd be so beautiful, if I was just a little thinner?
I may not be able to control my wrath. Because you know what, you arrogant jerk? I'm beautiful NOW. So take a hike. Before I use my stupendous ass to kick yours.