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Zip Zip

RACHEL AGHANWA

This piece was written about how I felt when questioned about or having others police my body.

The sound of a zipper not closing was the bane of my existence as a child. Seeing a pretty dress in a store and falling in love with it, only to find out it was in every other size but my own.

As a child, my grandma raised me due my mother working twelve-hour night shifts three days a week. And at every moment, whether it was her picking me up from school or playing in the park, she would shovel rice or ice cream down my throat.

I was a fat baby. Fat babies are cute, but after you pass third grade and you still haven’t lost that baby fat, you’re automatically put at the bottom of every “prettiest girl in class” list.

I could sit around and blame my grandma for making me like this (and I did for a couple of years), but it wasn’t her fault. I loved food, and I carried that love into my early teenage years.

It was during fifth grade that I found out that this wasn’t something to be proud of. At age ten, I was already wearing women’s clothing, and my mom would always complain when she took me to the children’s section, even though she knew damn well I was not going to fit in anything.

“Just try it on,” she used to say. Many people have grown up with this notion that the less you eat, the prettier you’ll be, and that this kind of mindset could destroy someone’s mental health. I used to cry about eating things that I wasn’t supposed to (those Rice Krispie marshmallow treats were actually very good at absorbing my tears; I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing) and would hide snacks in my room so my parents wouldn’t find out I was eating junk food.

Two years ago, I sat in front of the TV at 3 a.m., watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show and crying about my body not being like the models’ while eating a slice of chocolate cake.

I really wanted to be like them, eating whatever they wanted without bloating up, but then I did a little research. The VS Angels have to work out at least five times a week, have a controlled diet, and the week of the show, they don’t consume solid foods.

I may not fit society’s beauty standard, but I still love food. I can’t imagine life without pizza, mac and cheese, or even something as simple as bread, which the models aren’t even allowed to consume.

And who would want to live a life like that?

The doubts will always be at the back of my mind when making a decision to wear “those shorts” or “a shirt like that.” But eventually, you begin to realize that life is so much more than a number on a scale or a BMI percentile. It’s actually about eating as much food as possible, and learning to love yourself.