“God I’m fat.” All day, every day – regardless of what I’m doing- that’s the sentence running through my head. A mantra, if you will, reminding me that regardless of how many people tell me I’m “curvy” or “bodacious,” my size 14 (16, on a bad day) frame isn’t going to fit into those cute new jeans or that ridiculously adorable blouse.

To say anything else makes me feel like a liar… And since I can’t sweep my extra pounds or jiggling butt under the rug, I feel like a rather transparent one. Perhaps that’s why I spend so much time sitting at my computer; I’m a successful Beauty Blogger and I spend my days dishing on the hottest shoes and shiniest lip gloss. Honestly, it makes me uncomfortable to have such a title, when I’m so far from identifying with the glamorous models in each campaign I review.

It doesn’t matter that I know the ads I’m working with have been airbrushed, touched up, retouched, and then edited again. I don’t care that the pouty model stomping down the runway has probably been pumped with collagen, and undoubtedly didn’t even have cake on her last birthday. None of those women have ever left a store empty-handed and downtrodden because there wasn’t a single piece of clothing that made her feel attractive.

Fall fashions? Back to school wardrobe? What jokes. It’s severely less embarrassing for me to mix and match last seasons must haves than it is to spend forty five minutes trying on pants that make my thighs look like holiday hams. Besides, I know it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing- I’m going to feel like everyone’s staring at me for all the wrong reasons anyway.

Every day I log on and shout the pros of plaid, the virtues of diverse color palettes, and the flat-out sex appeal of leather. Every day, I get up and put on jeans, a plain tee, and flip flops. Whatever draws the least attention, hides the most of my flaws. The rest I paint with makeup. Oh, how I love makeup. I started wearing it when I was in elementary school, when I first started to feel like I was less than the other girls.

Eight years later, I know exactly how to contour, highlight, curl, and gloss- anything to keep eyes on my face and off my wide hips and not-so-flat stomach. I feel as though my beauty arsenal is one of the few ways I can connect with my female friends, as I assume that regardless of how long they’ve known me, they must be judging me. If I keep the conversation centered around how best to lengthen our lashes, I hope that they won’t notice that I’ve cleaned my plate.

Oh, and eating. Another aspect of my life which makes me feel dishonest. I feel a great pressure to announce how hungry I am and pretend I haven’t eaten all day (like anyone looks at me and believes that) before any meal with those not in my immediate circle. My hope is that if I eat what others surely consider a “normal” amount, my company will assume it’s because I’m famished- not fat.

Dining with my boyfriend’s family has become a particular point of contention. When I first vacationed at his parents’ house, I was too uncomfortable to help myself to any food during the day. So of course, dinner with the brood really was the first time I’d eaten during the day, and since I out-ate his very petite mother, I apparently gained a reputation as the girl who can eat. Now, I can’t have a meal at his house without repeatedly hearing, “Oh, Laney will finish that,” and “don’t worry, Laney will eat the rest of it.”

The only place I really feel safe is at my mother’s house. She’s a solid 18/20, and has fluctuated throughout the plus size range her entire life. From her I learned some do’s- and some definite don’t’s- for larger women. In return, I’ve shared every beauty tip in my arsenal. And we eat together… Without worry of judgement, criticism, or insult. It’s heaven. So’s her chocolate cake.

Regardless of what the tags in her clothing say, I’ve never thought of my mother as a plus size woman. Even my friends who I’m sure shop the same racks as I do-they’re just gorgeous girls that I know. In fact, there’s no woman I know that I mentally categorize as “fat,” other than myself. If I heard them talking about themselves the way I speak about myself, there’s no way I’d let it slide. I would praise their assets without hesitation- not in the clenched jaw manner I do when a size six buddy complains about her ass- in hopes of helping them see the beautiful person the rest of the world does.

But me? God I’m fat.