I am 5'1" and always need want ten more pounds on my bones. But.
I don't often feel tiny.
[Let me clarify: When I look in the mirror with a critical eye, so different from the everyday glance to make sure I am wearing clothes and my shirt is not tucked into my underwear, so different from the intentional time spent re-cognizing my features after a harsh day - yes, I am still here, blue eyes and brown hair - when I look in the mirror with a critical eye, I see tiny. I am tiny. I see me. The height. The weight. My perception matches reality. I say that as a disclaimer, an important disclaimer, but not as the topic. An important topic, but not the topic.]
I don't often feel tiny. The coffee mugs stored on the top shelf of the cabinet means I hop on the counter before drinking my morning coffee. Store bought pants too long means a trip to the tailors. She, and oh so many shes over the years, asks me to open the jar with the stuck lid. A crowded venue means I make my way to the front. I am tiny. But I hardly ever feel tiny.
I curl up into the couch cushions and don't think twice before taking a seat in someone's lap. I launch myself into hugs and lean on him entirely when he's standing behind me. When right moments present themselves, I say yes to piggy-back rides. I adore being tiny. But I don't often feel tiny.
For too many hours this week, I have felt tiny. Small. Insignificant. Weak. Unable to master the hurdles or embrace the strengths, the parts I adore. Unable to reach the goal. It came quick and fast, knocked me off my feet. I'm having trouble standing back up.
This too shall pass. I'll get my feet under me, perhaps as quickly as I lost them. Hopefully as quickly as I lost them. But when I do, I'd like to take a step in another direction. Just a small step, even. That goal is a distance away, but this journey is more important, right? I'll take the step, because I don't often feel tiny. And I don't intend on feeling tiny for very long.
[Let me clarify: When I look in the mirror with a critical eye, so different from the everyday glance to make sure I am wearing clothes and my shirt is not tucked into my underwear, so different from the intentional time spent re-cognizing my features after a harsh day - yes, I am still here, blue eyes and brown hair - when I look in the mirror with a critical eye, I see tiny. I am tiny. I see me. The height. The weight. My perception matches reality. I say that as a disclaimer, an important disclaimer, but not as the topic. An important topic, but not the topic.]
I don't often feel tiny. The coffee mugs stored on the top shelf of the cabinet means I hop on the counter before drinking my morning coffee. Store bought pants too long means a trip to the tailors. She, and oh so many shes over the years, asks me to open the jar with the stuck lid. A crowded venue means I make my way to the front. I am tiny. But I hardly ever feel tiny.
I curl up into the couch cushions and don't think twice before taking a seat in someone's lap. I launch myself into hugs and lean on him entirely when he's standing behind me. When right moments present themselves, I say yes to piggy-back rides. I adore being tiny. But I don't often feel tiny.
For too many hours this week, I have felt tiny. Small. Insignificant. Weak. Unable to master the hurdles or embrace the strengths, the parts I adore. Unable to reach the goal. It came quick and fast, knocked me off my feet. I'm having trouble standing back up.
This too shall pass. I'll get my feet under me, perhaps as quickly as I lost them. Hopefully as quickly as I lost them. But when I do, I'd like to take a step in another direction. Just a small step, even. That goal is a distance away, but this journey is more important, right? I'll take the step, because I don't often feel tiny. And I don't intend on feeling tiny for very long.
