What do you think when you hear the word blonde and skinny? Do you hate a bitch already? Or do you smile and wave? Do you think there is a gaping distance of any possible friendship or mutual ground?
There are notions that go with these words. And glares. Like wanna-tie-her-down-and-pour-cheese-sauce-down-her-throat Glares.
I’m that blonde skinny girl. I dye my hair dark sometimes, so I can be that brunette skinny girl. It is who I am, and just like any other women, I have my own insecurities, battles, and fears.
But there are a handful of fellow women who won’t even make eye contact with a girl like me. You think we are ‘so different’ because we shop on different parts of the rack. I’m looking at you girls over there, in the self-appointed fat girl club.
If I’m out in the crowd you think I’m so overconfident in my size small yellow cardigan. If I am being a wallflower you assume I’m a snob. If I eat a salad you scoff that I probably only eat a blueberry and carrot stick for dinner. If I eat a burger you roll your eyes that I can gorge on ‘anything I want’. You think it’s okay to comment on my weight. As if pointing out to someone how you could break them like a twig is any better than commenting to someone who is overweight.
You can’t be happy around me and I can feel it the second I come into your presence.
You think because our stature is different that we have become incompatible and a wall is put up. It’s a self-perpetuating idea when you get this thought stuck on repeat in your head. But girl, it ain’t the truth.
I bet if we can have a few drinks together we can bond over our mutual crush on Patrick Stewart, he’s old, but good jawlines are timeless. Maybe we could meet up at my messy house for coffee and spend a couple hours complaining about our husband’s man colds and the shitty customer service at the grocery store. Then perhaps one day we can share our fears that we aren’t doing well as mothers, daughters, or sisters.
Because we are both women who want to feel special to our loved ones. It seems we are both trying to hush that voice inside of us convincing us we aren’t somehow enough.
So you can stand on the sidelines clutching your mojito while Melanie teaches me how to twerk my pancake ass. Or you can bring the foam finger and show us how it’s done.