A Starving Artist's Relationship With "Size" (Definition B)

There are certain phrases that no woman in this world ever hopes to have thrown in her direction.

I am currently thinking about one in particular.

And here I am, the night before the shoot--THE SHOOOOOT!!!--and it is absolutely all that I can think about.

...

I would like to preface this by saying the following:
              I in no way think that I am "fat".  I don't.  I eat well (and sometimes don't...and that's fine), and I work out, yoga myself and all of those things.  I appreciate the size number on my pants.  I know that I'm not waify, but I know that I'm not built to be.  I have no idea how much I weigh, and generally, I don't care.  But.

I am a girl--a woman.  An actress, none the less. 

...Size matters.  Mine does.  To me.

...

So, there I am at my fitting for this shoot a few days ago, and it's glorious.  I feel like a kid in a couture candy shop.  There I am trying on all of these cute little dresses with the head of wardrobe and his lovely assistant--getting one pair of skyscraper heels after another tossed my way.

"Honey, that's cute."
I know, I really like it.
"Oooh, Honey, no.  That's cute."
Ohhh man, I love this one.  I LOVE this.
"OK, we really need to push for you to wear that one, that's hot, Lady."
Eeeeeeeeeee, OK!!!

Seemingly for a while, it was like each new dress was cute and cuter and cuter still.   I was starting to feel like I was living that little montage in Pretty Woman, the one where Richard Gere has just given Julia Roberts his credit card and she goes to that one boutique and tries on all of these dresses and starts dancing in the mirror...or something.

But then.

"Oooh, this is a cute quirky stretchy little number.  Try this one on."
And it was, it was cute, quirky, and stretchy and all of those things.
"Oh."
What?
"Oh, yeah, no.  There's too much thigh."
...What?
"Yeah, you got a little too much thigh."
...Oh.
"Hmmm.  This one?  Try this one."
...
"Nope.  It's the thighs.  Ever worn Spanx?"
Uhhh...no.  No.  I haven't.
"They're like magic.  Here."

And in my brain, I know that everyone wears these, even the Katie Holmeses and Jennifer Anistons etc of this world wear these.  But shit.

"Mmmm...nope.  No.  Keep those on, keep the Spanx on, take that dress off. Try this one."

...I am a cow.

"Noooooooooo--no.  Nope.  Thighs.  Or, wait.  What if we adjust it like this?..."

GOD!  What IS this?!  And then there I am, staring at myself in the mirror while this guy is futzing with me in the dress (and Spanx...), and I begin to notice all of these other things that I have decided are wrong with my legs.

My knees look kinda bulgy.

Is that a fucking vericose vein?!  No. ...
Yes?...Nooooo.

God, I'm white.  I am so.  Pasty white.

If I stand differently...can I make my knees look bonier?


It was the dumbest thing ever. 

And suddenly, it didn't matter what dress I was trying on, it didn't matter how cute or flattering the shape actually was on my figure, all I could see when I looked in the mirror was "fat".  Lots.

I felt totally defeated.  I was overwhelmed by it, out of nowhere.

And I'm getting changed, feeling like crap, afraid to stand around in my underwear anymore in front of this guy when he peaces out and leaves me alone in the room with his assistant.

And suddenly that defeat-feeling is quelched by this overwhelming need to apologize to her.

I'm sorry.
"What?"
No, it's just...about my thighs.
"Oh..."
...No, I just...it's the craziest thing.  It's like no matter what I do, no matter how well-behaved I am, they just never shrink.  I guess...I guess this is what I've got.  I guess.
...
"OK, two things."
What?
"One, everyone has their body part.  Everyone.  That they hate."
...Yeah, you're right.
"That they can't change and just--that they hate.  Always."
Right.  These are mine.
"Do you have the part already?"
...
...I do. ...

And I finally look at her because I realize I haven't been and have been looking at my stupid legs instead, and she has the biggest sweetest grin plastered across her face.

"Then what are you worried about, Lady?"

...

Sound advice.  But I'm not over it.

I launch myself into a vow of I am working out and eating like a champion every single day until this shoot...and stick to it, and don't feel any better.  Really.

I have other legitimate pearls of wisdom thrown my way on the topic:

"Honey, was the guy a queen?"
...Maybe?
"He was.  Only a raging queen would say that--they hate curves.  They're either all about twink bodies, or they actually want the curves for themselves."
Ohhhhhh.

...

"But you like curves, right?  Don't you want your thighs because they'll make your dresses look better?"
Ummmm....

...

"Ohmygod, I LOVE Spanx!!"
Welllll...

...


"But you know he wasn't right."
                "You know he wasn't right."
                                  "You know he wasn't right."
                                                 "Angela.  Please.  He wasn't right."


...And maybe he wasn't.
Maybe not.

But.

You could not have possibly said a worse thing to a girl before she goes on camera in her most exposed way to date.  You couldn't have.


But.

This is likely the thing I need to kind of expect.  This is likely just what happens.  And I need to be braver.  Less permeable.

Regardless:

Fuck it.

I'm here.  (Or will be, at 10:30 tomorrow morning...).  And I was cast, and I am going to be on a set, and I do have a line ("!?!") to say, and I will be freaking charming and cute and nice.

I will be bigger than my thighs.

Dammit.

...


HOLY CRAP, TOMORROWWWWWWW!!!!!!!