On Sunday I cried in Myer, I cried in George Street and I cried in the QVB. Not just a single tear squeezed out discreetly but full on sobbing on Duckfish’s shoulder.
Was I crying because my heart was broken, because I had lost something dear to me or because I was in pain? … I was going to say no, but perhaps I was.
I was crying because of the way I looked in my underwear in those giant dressing room mirrors, unflatteringly lit by fluorescent lights. I was crying because of the number on the label inside the clothes. I was crying because I didn’t look like the mannequins in the window.
So I am not the poster girl for always loving myself and I still beat myself up because I don’t have the perfect body. Even when I was a size 8, I still didn’t have a perfect body so it is all so pointless. There will always be someone skinnier than me.
If I could just stop comparing myself to other women, it would really help. Oh, and I shouldn’t go shopping for an awards show dress when I’ve got PMT!