Read Online From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amber Kizer
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honest emotion.
But here’s the hideous deal: I would trade my brains for the bod of any A-list actress. Maybe being beautiful would get old.
Eventually.
No, it wouldn’t. Who are those people who think the inside is so much more important than the outside? No one gets past the outside to get to the inside unless they like the packaging. When was the last time you bought the horridly packaged hot dogs with the little flying pigs on them because you thought the inside had to make up for the piglet motif?
Tangent: sorry.
I shut the closet door, effectively bringing the curtain down on the mirror.
It’s not me in that mirror. She’s almost adult and I’m seriously missing the mutant gene that makes me deep and unshallow. Maybe it’s my problem. Maybe someday I’ll be happy with my lumps and bumps and trunk, but that day is not today.
I’m no closer to feeling at one with my body than I am to speaking fluent Swahili. It’s possible, but not highly probable. And please, no breath-holding.
Buttocks!
I throw my naked self against my pillows and navy-puke bedspread.
How come every time I try to visualize myself comfortable and at home in my skin, somehow I’m a size two, with perfect breasts, white sparkly teeth, the hair of a goddess and golden skin? Seriously, what happened to being okay with reality? I was a happy kindergartner focused on crayons, not flaws. I colored outside the lines and I was creative. Now I grow outside the lines and I’m a mutant. I don’t get it.
“You okay?” Clarice asks me on our way to lunch the next day. “You look sick.”
“Just school and stuff.” I can’t shake the post-vacation blahs. I try, but I get bogged down in odd weepiness.
“Whatever, I get it.” Clarice pats me on the back. “When’s the big family dinner?”
I’m having dinner with Stephen’s family tonight. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m going to puke at any second. And here I’m thinking it was the shrimp I didn’t eat last night. “Tonight.”
Breathe, Gert. Breathe
.
“Wow. You nervous?” she asks, all guru.
“Maybe.” I swallow bile.
“I think I’d be puking.”
“Hadn’t occurred to me,” I lie.
“That’s a big step, you know. They’ll be all microscoping you and judging you. And you’ll never be good enough for little Stevie.” She speaks as one who knows.
“Not helping.”
I’m going to go find a cliff to jump off, thank you
.
“Sorry. That’s just what I’ve heard.”
The Oracle, aka older sister. “Older sister, right?”
“Yeah,” Clarice says almost apologetically. “She has doozy stories about weird relatives. She pretty much says it’s the determining factor about your future together.”
“Future together?” Are we kidding? I thought it was food and talking and maybe seeing where he sleeps—a chaperoned tour, of course. Can it really be about the future? “We’re not getting married.”
“You’re certainly not getting married if his mother doesn’t like you.”
“What are you talking about?” I stumble over a perfectly flat floor. “She’s met me. Driven me.” Granted, it was terribly dark and we didn’t speak in the car.
“My sister. Head over heels with this guy, and he was great to her. Perfect. His mother still did his laundry and grocery shopping, even though he lived on the other side of town. The motherhated my sister. Venom. He never called her again. Not that she was too upset because the dude’s boxers were always starched and she didn’t understand that until—”
I must stop the flow. “I get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know. But we’re sophomores.” Like this mitigates the relative horrors.
“Never too early to be stealing away the little prince.”
Holy-Mother-of-Small-Boys, what have you done to us? Could we just have a drive-by? I can stand on the curb and Stephen’s mom can peer out the window at me and tally up all the reasons I’m not good enough to date her son and we could all move
But here’s the hideous deal: I would trade my brains for the bod of any A-list actress. Maybe being beautiful would get old.
Eventually.
No, it wouldn’t. Who are those people who think the inside is so much more important than the outside? No one gets past the outside to get to the inside unless they like the packaging. When was the last time you bought the horridly packaged hot dogs with the little flying pigs on them because you thought the inside had to make up for the piglet motif?
Tangent: sorry.
I shut the closet door, effectively bringing the curtain down on the mirror.
It’s not me in that mirror. She’s almost adult and I’m seriously missing the mutant gene that makes me deep and unshallow. Maybe it’s my problem. Maybe someday I’ll be happy with my lumps and bumps and trunk, but that day is not today.
I’m no closer to feeling at one with my body than I am to speaking fluent Swahili. It’s possible, but not highly probable. And please, no breath-holding.
Buttocks!
I throw my naked self against my pillows and navy-puke bedspread.
How come every time I try to visualize myself comfortable and at home in my skin, somehow I’m a size two, with perfect breasts, white sparkly teeth, the hair of a goddess and golden skin? Seriously, what happened to being okay with reality? I was a happy kindergartner focused on crayons, not flaws. I colored outside the lines and I was creative. Now I grow outside the lines and I’m a mutant. I don’t get it.
“You okay?” Clarice asks me on our way to lunch the next day. “You look sick.”
“Just school and stuff.” I can’t shake the post-vacation blahs. I try, but I get bogged down in odd weepiness.
“Whatever, I get it.” Clarice pats me on the back. “When’s the big family dinner?”
I’m having dinner with Stephen’s family tonight. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m going to puke at any second. And here I’m thinking it was the shrimp I didn’t eat last night. “Tonight.”
Breathe, Gert. Breathe
.
“Wow. You nervous?” she asks, all guru.
“Maybe.” I swallow bile.
“I think I’d be puking.”
“Hadn’t occurred to me,” I lie.
“That’s a big step, you know. They’ll be all microscoping you and judging you. And you’ll never be good enough for little Stevie.” She speaks as one who knows.
“Not helping.”
I’m going to go find a cliff to jump off, thank you
.
“Sorry. That’s just what I’ve heard.”
The Oracle, aka older sister. “Older sister, right?”
“Yeah,” Clarice says almost apologetically. “She has doozy stories about weird relatives. She pretty much says it’s the determining factor about your future together.”
“Future together?” Are we kidding? I thought it was food and talking and maybe seeing where he sleeps—a chaperoned tour, of course. Can it really be about the future? “We’re not getting married.”
“You’re certainly not getting married if his mother doesn’t like you.”
“What are you talking about?” I stumble over a perfectly flat floor. “She’s met me. Driven me.” Granted, it was terribly dark and we didn’t speak in the car.
“My sister. Head over heels with this guy, and he was great to her. Perfect. His mother still did his laundry and grocery shopping, even though he lived on the other side of town. The motherhated my sister. Venom. He never called her again. Not that she was too upset because the dude’s boxers were always starched and she didn’t understand that until—”
I must stop the flow. “I get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know. But we’re sophomores.” Like this mitigates the relative horrors.
“Never too early to be stealing away the little prince.”
Holy-Mother-of-Small-Boys, what have you done to us? Could we just have a drive-by? I can stand on the curb and Stephen’s mom can peer out the window at me and tally up all the reasons I’m not good enough to date her son and we could all move
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