I have spent the majority of my life unhappy with my weight and trying to fix it. When I was 11 or so, a short, buck-toothed boy informed me that I was fat (it didn’t occur to me to inform him that he was short and buck-toothed). Until that moment, standing in my friend’s kitchen with her aforementioned older brother, my body was just a body, but there I was suddenly and inexplicably standing in an inferior one. When I got home I stood in front of a full-length mirror in my parents’ room hoping, “maybe my back just bows in and makes my stomach stick out further than it should?” (Because of course I would rather have a deformed spine than be chubby!) But no matter how straight I tried to stand or how hard I tried to suck it in, my reflection transformed before me from that of a carefree little girl to an insecure prepubescent one.