Skinny B*tch

Since I was in my late teens/ early twenties I've 'battled' with my weight. Anyone who knows me and is reading this is probably thinking 'what is she talking about?' I've never been bigger than a U.S. Size 8 and that was only for a few months courtesy of a semester abroad in Italy where I ate pesto, pasta, and pizza like it was going out of style. It's been more of an internal battle than a physical one (although I could never seem to shift those stubborn last five pounds), comparing myself to images in magazines and petite friends who so perfectly fit in a size 0 or 2.

In college, I was on the sailing team, which kept me pretty fit and I went to the gym regularly to 'tone up'. Going to the gym became a regular habit in my post college life, as did running, all of which I did in the name of one day achieving my perfect body- a svelt size 4, with a C cup and slender thighs that perfectly fit into any jeans (I'm a big-thighed kinda gal with a DD chest). Well, despite all my efforts, I never achieved it through exercise and a healthy diet. What I did achieve was a very fit and toned size 6 body that as much as I hated it, sometimes needed to size up to a size 8 or a large to accommodate my thighs or chest. Nonetheless, I always joked with Gary that I wanted to be one of those 'skinny b*tches' who don't have a muffin top in a bikini, no matter how tight it is.

Fast forward to now. When I see people I haven't seen in a while, I often get complimented on 'how great I look' and how I don't look like I've ever had a baby. See, I didn't gain much weight in pregnancy and lost most of it near immediately, but my 'new' physique I owe all to cancer. I'm finally a size 4, or as Gary now calls me his 'skinny b*tch,' with thin thighs and a smaller bust; however, my weight loss can only be accredited to never ending nausea, bouts of sickness that go on for days and treatment that makes my appetite non-existent.

So, now that I'm finally a skinny bitch, do I like what I see when I look in the mirror? I don't. I miss my muscle tone (having not been able to work out for the last five months): it's absence reminds me of how fit I once was and of my current physical limitations. I miss my curves: their absence reminds me of how I pathetically can't finish a burger anymore and of just how much this disease has affected me in such a short period of time (if the plummeting weight chart on my oncologist's computer screen isn't reminder enough). I don't want my new body, it's reflection a reminder of just how sick I am. I miss my old body, and if I ever get it back, I promise to love it and never wish it away in place of a 'skinny b*tch.'