If you asked me to strip naked in front of a body-length mirror, I’d protest like a two-year-old at first. I hate mirrors; the less often I have to look at myself in one, the better.

If you somehow managed to coax me into stripping naked and pointing out everything I liked about my body, I would say this: How soft my skin is, even though I rarely use body lotions. My eye color, a dark emerald green. My gappy front teeth, which gives me a youthful look when I grin. My hair color, because it is a rare shade even for natural redheads. My pubic hair, because it’s a sign of womanhood. I’ll trim it when it needs it, but I wouldn’t ever shave it off completely. While most women appear to hate their pubic hair, I’m proud of mine.

Now, if you asked me to identify everything I hated about my body, I would say this: How thick and oily my red hair is, because it makes the Georgia heat only more unbearable during the summer. How sensitive my skin is, because even sensitive soaps make me break out. How oily my skin is, because of how often I break out whether I’m PMS-ing or not. How prone I am to contract infections of all kinds. The scars I have on my lower back and inside my butt crack because of cysts. The two crossbites on my lower set of teeth. My severe cramps during periods. My short neck, because short necks ain’t pretty. My chicken arms, my gorilla breasts, my elephant legs. My obesity, and how petite I am. I could go on forever just bitching about this, I guess.

I can’t remember ever truly loving myself. I remember finding myself ugly even as a Kindergartener. Once body fat overtook baby fat, my classmates definitely did not help me feel any more confident about myself. I was constantly bullied and neglected over my weight. If anyone did talk to me, it would be just to insult me. I’m now afraid of rejection by anyone, so I find it very difficult to make and retain friends. This may be lifelong, I fear.

I recall a particularly traumatizing incident in middle school where some Indian women came to my art class with saris to try one. Having Indian best friends in elementary school, I was the only student who willingly volunteered. When I couldn’t fit into the little orange dress, one of the women said, “Oh, looks like you’re too fat! Can I have… this skinny girl try it on instead? Yes, she’ll be much prettier than this fat girl…” Saris still give me very bad memories.

Okay, I’m fat. I get it. I was large for a twin baby in the early nineties at six pounds, nine ounces. I can never recall wearing really tiny clothes except as a baby, and I have difficulty imagining myself as an extra-small, small, or even a medium. Depending on what part of my body you’re referring to, I can wear anything from extra large to 3XL. I developed early, wearing a bra by age seven for instance, and now I wear a 48DD/E bra. Many girls desire having larger busts. I would love to have smaller boobs; a C would be nice.

Aside from my obesity, I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t have diabetes; I don’t have heart problems, and my blood pressure is actually slightly below normal. I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and IBS (irritable bowel syndrome), but I have yet to experience any serious medical problems from either. If anything, my doctors are primarily worried about, not my blood sugar or my cholesterol, but about my thyroid. If I’m not crying at night over obesity-induced medical problems, then what is causing my piss poor body image?

I feel vain for saying this, but I hate how my obesity denies me from feeling pretty. Clothes and makeup are often implemented to flaunt or enhance your best physical features. I’m just a size too large for underwear with lace, ribbons, and other pretty notions; I have to buy plain ol’ “granny panties.” Being at an odd band and cup size, finding good, decently priced bras in my size is a challenge. I hate Wal-Mart bras, and yet most of my bras are those because they appear to be the only brand that carries them for prices lower than $100. And even then, they’re not exactly bras you want to flirt in. Plus-size clothing is the same deal. I hate Tinkerbell, and yet I have two Tinkerbell shirts because my mother could only find those at the thrift store. I absolutely love Donald Duck, but all the plus size shirts with his mugshot on it are just fugly. It appears that only smaller girls are allowed to wear cute and sexy clothes.

I can definitely see how I’m cute, but I don’t feel like I can ever be sexy. Sexual attractiveness is the first step to a romantic relationship. Someone finds you sexy, you chit chat, and with luck, you may hook up. Women often purchase lingerie and the like to spice up their already sexy bodies, and to seduce. But with the negative perception towards obesity as ugly, and the lack of beautiful things available for overweight women, I have difficulty picturing myself as a sexy woman. Not being able to have someone find me truly beautiful, sexually beautiful, is what I’m afraid of most. I am afraid I’ll be alone forever.