By twelve, I was ‘big boned’
with a ‘generous’ nose,
size 10 Fred Flintstone feet,
an overly toothy smile,
and muscular legs
no skinny jeans could contain.
I just wanted to be smaller.

Fantasies swirled through my
hormone-soaked teenager brain.
Ah, to be like those tiny girls
in Jordache shorts,
who effortlessly spun cartwheels,
still wore training bras and
hadn’t hit triple digits on the scale.

If I were just smaller,
the shorter boy in English class
wouldn’t be afraid to ask me out.
With a smaller nose, my face would be pretty.
But I’d still have these teeth.
If my hands were dainty, I could wear cute rings
from that hippie shop on Main Street in town.
If I had smaller feet, those adorable ballet flats
wouldn’t look like canoes.
A smaller belly and maybe, just maybe,
I’d wear a two-piece to the pool
without fear of being called a whale.

Boys got taller,
I got smarter. 
Thirty years later, I’m still big boned,
with big feet, thighs, teeth, and a big nose.
But those feet carry me on my runs
and to all the great events of my life.
My frame lifts heavy weights and
supports my burdens.
I’ve grown to love my nose and teeth,
which make me uniquely me.
Plus, now I have big ideas,
a big brain, a big spirit, a big heart,
and a big lug who wasn’t
scared to ask me out.