Five Pounds

“I want to lose five pounds” I tell my husband and he shakes his head.

He shakes it because he knows that I really mean I want to be skinny. And five pounds this month, does nothing to change the five pounds more that I will want to lose after, and the five after that.

There is no contentment to this cycle. There is always more to be fixed.

He knows this because he knew me when my cheeks sunk in, and I could buy small sizes even in Taiwan, and I had size zero jeans. He knows that even then, I wanted to lose those five more pounds. Always five more pounds.

What he doesn't know is that I still have those size zero jeans, hidden in the back of our closet for the day that I will be able to wear them again.

“You know I think you’re beautiful just the way you are?” he whispers to me and I look away.

I look away because he has to say these things to me. Because we are married and what else could he say, he knows better than to tell me he wishes I looked like someone else.

My soul has always swum with discontentment, and the more I think, the bigger it gets. This perfection is impossible to attain.

He knows better than to say that he wishes there was a gap in between my thighs, and that I never had rolls when I sat down, and that my neck was longer. If he said these things that I’m sure he is thinking, he knows my heart would break. He wants me to lose those five more pounds.

What I don’t know is that he threw the jeans out, because he doesn't want to see me try to be that small ever again.