A plate of cookies sit on the break room table. Our fiscal officer is masticating a raspberry truffle; everyone in the room except me has a treat in their hand. She doesn’t bother to swallow before asking the question and it catches me off guard. The word tastes funny on my ears. Skih-nee. Skin - ee. Skin - knee. No one has ever put me and that word in the same sentence before. I don’t know how to react. I smile. On the inside I am cringing. It’s true my body has been changing, fat melting away to reveal collar and rib and hip bones. Slick muscle. But there is still so much of me. Too much. The boiling yellow and white is swallowing me whole. Smothering me. Choking me.
That my pencil-skirt, once skin tight, can now be slipped off without undoing the clasp means nothing. It is an embarrassing, obscene size. Made from a tent’s worth of material. The needle on the scale keeps drifting down, but the number is never small enough. I am never small enough.
Sometimes I wonder if this will ever end. If there will ever be a perfect size. A weight where I feel skinny, perfect.
I will have to stop binging to find out. Impossible.