Fitting rooms are death.
As in, every time I enter a fitting room,
I die a little bit inside
when I look in the mirror.
This dress would look great!
If it wasn’t on me.
I think to myself.
It doesn’t seem to matter
that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,
the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.
Or that my legs,
though considerably short,
are toned from hours and hours of
or waiting on tables.
I climb out of the dress,
which is rather difficult
since I forced the zipper up
in hopes of making it fit.
I shake my head and vow
that I will not be undone by an
inanimate piece of fabric.
I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;
I face myself once again in the mirror,
and repeat to the refection there
the words many men have proven to be true,
the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,
the words I remind myself that I believe:
“You are beautiful.”