S is for stretchmarks

Dear body,
We haven't always had the same idea of what you were supposed to be like. My first want for you was boobs, a butt, thighs, and hips. A real woman's curves. It took years and several cheeseburgers, but eventually you complied. I could no longer see the spread of my hip bones, jutting out like the wings of a flesh colored butterfly.

Then it was my nose, my teeth, my eyes, the color of my hair, the length of my legs, how sparse my eyebrows are, and that one weird mole that rests inside the hollow of my neck. Every time I looked in the mirror I just saw large pores and crooked teeth.

I've never really thought of myself as a pretty girl, but this isn't a letter about my self-esteem. This is a letter about my stretchmarks.

I became dissatisfied with the curves that I demanded of you. Maybe it was because we jiggled with every step we took, maybe it's because nothing fit right, or maybe it's because I ate all my sadness and whenever I looked down it just made me want a brownie.

So, you were nice enough to comply. I'm starting to be thin again.

But now, you're riddled with these shimmery white stripes. My calves, hips, breasts, and butt are now marred with stretchmarks.

And I really don't mind them.

These are our stretchmarks. They go for miles and miles to explain the woman we've grown into. The body of the child we've left behind. They are pink and red and silvery white, stretched around those parts people like to touch. They are ugly but they are the evidence of maturity. I look at them and I am proud.

Honestly, I don't think you've ever been so lovely.

I think I'll keep you this way. Crooked teeth, stretchmarks, and all.

Love,
Kendra

Xx

Dear extra X chromosome,

            I don’t know what it means to have you. I did a little research on the subject, but I was faced with exhausting standards. I have to have curves, lift weights, make babies, have grace, and not date Yankees fans. There’s more to it than that, but even thinking about it wears me out.

And… I don’t want to do any of those things.

I don’t think doing or not doing these things makes me have less of you. In fact, I don’t think you really have much to do with the whole identity of a woman at all. Your whole purpose is to designate whether or not my body has the equipment to make more of me. You don’t even have to make sure it’s functional equipment.

Which, you didn’t. And that’s fine. I didn’t even want to make more of me.

I don’t think this makes me less real of a woman, though. Whatever that means.

It makes me feel as if, at any point, a group of women will show up at my door, make me strip off my girl suit, and tell me to get out because they don’t allow crazy lizard monster people in their lady club.

Listen: I don’t want to wear pantyhose and I want to feel free to have mental breakdowns. I would rather wear flats than heels and I feel sorry for any person that gives me something and expects me not to accidentally break it. I have And I don’t want those things to be a tool in which others measure and classify me. I don’t think it’s fair that my having you and trying to be who I am makes me… less, somehow.

I do want to say thanks for showing up and making sure I was born with female parts. Otherwise, I would be going through a lot of really tough stuff right now to try and prove to others even more that I am a woman.

I do like you and everything, I just wish you were able to be more clear about what you’re doing here and what it means to have you.

Love,

Kendra