Day 11

Sometimes my own vanity/self-consciousness sneaks up on me, surprising me with how biting it is. Tonight we looked at wedding photos from two years ago, finally trying to select a few to print after some not-so-subtle requests from our parents. Of course, I saw the love and the joy and the family, the celebration and triumph and funny-faced dancing. But I also saw the fly-away hair floating around my head, a fiery fuzz in the thick wet air of that September afternoon; the ill-fitting gown that I still don't love; the harsh bump to my nose; my thin upper lip, identical to my father's and brother's; the tan lines on my shoulders, despite the weeks of streaky self-tanner I slicked on in vain; the shine of my sweaty skin, and the round stain from the sweat pooling at the small of my back; the witchy double jointed-ness of my fingers, distracting me from the sparkle of the new rings; the unsupported boobs and back fat spilling out, thanks to the extra pounds I didn't lose because I couldn't live without the comforts of ice cream in the months leading up to the wedding as I crafted and planned alone. I see the sharpness to A's body, 20 pounds underweight, smiles and tears on her hollowed out cheeks as she neared the rock bottom of her depression, which struck us so deeply just a few months later and for so many months after that. I see how short I am - in the sensible, flat shoes that I chose for their comfort and not looks because I didn't want to be the hobbling, blistered bride - and I am reminded of how uncoordinated and uncomfortable I am in the high heels that would give me height and round out my ass. Instead I see myself head and shoulders below everyone there, I see the wideness and the flatness of my mom's and my mom-mom's back side already settling in during my 30s, hip ready to expand further should I bear any children. But damn if my hair and eye makeup didn't look the best they ever have.