was imagining. “I’ve never seen you move so fast! I swear”—she pauses for more laughter—“it looked like you just discovered your super-speed powers or something.”
“Hilarious,” I say, deadpan.
I catch my breath while Miss Mable turns me, pokes me (with a pin twice), and admonishes me for squirming over the next ten minutes. I can’t stand still, though. The devil will walk through the front door any minute, and I REFUSE to be standing here with my hands in the air like I’m surrendering in our war. I plan on being long gone before Ryan arrives.
“Alrighty, I’ll take in an inch on either side, and you’ll be good to go. Should be ready for you to pick back up in two days. You can take it off now.” She’s reaching for the zipper again, but I side-step her and make a break for the dressing rooms.
“I’ll toss the gown over the door for you,” I say, and Miss Mable frowns. I’m starting to wonder if she and Stacy are in on some sort of quest to embarrass me in front of Ryan. It’s ridiculous, of course. They would never do that.
But still…I lock the door to the dressing room.
I turn around and look in the mirror, almost not recognizing the woman staring back at me. This gown fits like a glove, hugging, lifting, and smoothing in all the right places. I silently thank Stacy for not being one of those brides who chooses an ugly dress for her bridesmaids. You all get bright-orange dresses with fifteen pounds of added ruffles! Enjoy!
No, this dress is nothing short of lovely. It has a sweetheart neckline and dainty spaghetti straps. The bodice is made from a stiff material that is tight and flattering, but this skirt has layers and layers of soft sheer fabric that cascade like a waterfall from my waist to the floor. It looks as if I should be going to an award show with a red carpet where photographers shout my name rather than a wedding.
Miss Mable’s scratchy voice cuts through the stall door, and I jump a mile off the floor. “Almost done in there?”
I hurry and unzip the dress before sliding it off and tossing it over the door. I watch the fabric disappear and hear Miss Mable shuffle off.
Turning back to the mirror, I play with my hair, getting ideas for how to have it styled for the wedding while I wait for Stacy to toss my clothes over to me. But now that the dress is off, a familiar discomfort creeps up my spine. My eyes fall from my brown hair to my chest. Not much to see there. My boobs are small—nothing to write home about. I assess my hips next, pinching the excess squish I find on each side. I’ve been running incessantly for two years, and still, I can’t get rid of my curves. I blame it on my squat height. And don’t even get me started about my thighs. They—
I cut myself off mid-critique because I hate that I do this. I hate that I have body image issues that I can’t seem to get over. I can fake it in public, but when I’m alone, I can’t hold it back.
Suddenly, I’m suspicious that Miss Mable is wiser than I gave her credit for. Maybe she’s my mystical life guru, sent to help me purge the flaws lurking in my soul. Becoming a nudist seems like an odd way to better myself, but who am I to argue with a guru? Because, yeah, I don’t like to be naked, or even look anything less than perfectly put together. It’s the only way I keep my ex’s voice out of my head.
“Not attracted to you anymore.”
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop asking myself the same questions over and over. If I had weight trained more? Or not let myself get so comfortable around him? Would it have stopped him from cheating on me? Why wasn’t I enough for him?
A part of me works hard to fend off his callous words while another taunts that Ben wasn’t attracted to me anymore because of the squish on my stomach. Because of the extra Oreos at night. Because of the butter on my toast.
It’s fine, though. I’m fine. It’s in the past, and I’m a new woman. I don’t need a man to make me happy. I don’t even want one.
“Shoot!” Stacy says. “Miss Mable, I completely forgot to have you look at