She's also five feet tall on a tall day, wearing heels, and eighty-five pounds soaking wet.
She has the perfect American body: tiny waist, long legs, no hips, big boobs.
And she came in walking funny. Because she'd been at the gym the day before, in an attempt to gain weight.
"My God!" she said, "I've been doing squats and lunges and sit-ups! All I want is a buttocks, can you imagine?" (I wish I could say that this was funny; instead, it's transcribed as she said it.) "I want a butt! I want a body like yours, right? With a belly, and boobs, and a butt! I am so sore, I should be walking down the hall, saying 'BRAINS' because I am walking like a zombie!"
Her husband thinks she is too damn skinny. She looks great, not underfed; she's just one of those women, like the Immortal Elizabeth, who will never be fully-human-sized.
And yet she wants *my* body. Because her husband complains that there's nothing to grab hold of. She says that he says that she's too bony; that her rib and hip bones aren't padded by enough belly fat. He wants a woman who's more voluptuous. She would love not to look in the mirror and see herself; instead, she would like to see my belly and boobs and hips.
And I would love *her* body, because of her tiny flat stomach and her lack of hips.
I told my massage therapist about this today. "I hate it that people think I'm undisciplined or not fit because I'm fat" I said. "Tell me about it," she replied, "I've lost some weight in the last couple of months, I don't know how much, but I'll be damned if people aren't treating me differently. Better."
We exchanged knowing looks.
My butt and belly and I might move to Puerto Rico.