I love my girlfriends, each and every one of them, to the core.
They are supportive, funny and caring. They meet me for “after work cocktails” and sushi dinners and are always available when I need someone to help me with an unexpected emergency (like flooding my apartment, or any injury I inflict upon my klutzy self). My friends who are far away make time for phone chats and they send birthday cards without fail. In short, I have a fantastic friend gallery. The only thing that I hate about them is the fact that they are all diminutive in size.
At least 95% of my close girlfriends are petite and tiny. They could all go on vacation with one suitcase full of sample sized clothes and share. Whether I met them when I was three years old or in law school, they all share a lithe build and tiny waists. When I got married I had beautiful Vera Wang gowns given to me as a gift for my bridesmaids, and I just mailed them each a dress knowing full well it didn’t matter which one because they’d all have them taken in and size wasn’t an issue. Sure enough they all looked great…and smaller than me. There is something profoundly unfair in standing at the altar as the bride and the biggest girl up there—even if you know in your heart of hearts you are not exactly big.
By average standards I’m not a lumbering giant, but when I’m with my best friends I feel like one. At 5’4″ I tower over the majority of them, but for the few who are taller than me, they could hide their entire body behind the width of my thigh. I wear a solid size in shirts and yoga pants, yet I don’t take part in the girl ritual of borrowing clothes because my friends’ would be laughably small on me. Their pyjama pants wouldn’t go past my knees and their t-shirts would make someone wonder if I was taking my fashion guidance from Clueless. Heaven help me if I have a disaster at their house and need a change of clothes, because frankly I’d be S.O.L. And, like every other woman in the world, I find myself comparing my attributes to theirs.
My size seven feet are like flippers compared to so-and-so’s size five tootsies.
My shirts would be a tent on her.
She could fit both her legs in one leg of my jeans and have room to spare.
I don’t like shopping for clothes with my friends anymore, as I resign myself to the full-priced racks because the sale corner is only filled with tiny-person clothing and odd, fuzzy sweaters that could serve as a living room throw rug. It makes me feel inadequate as they discuss having a dress nipped in at the waist and I consider swapping the one I’m wearing for a bigger size so I can have some more breathing room. Who needs to flip through a fashion magazine to feel bad about their body when they can just meet their girlfriends out for lunch?
What I should do, what I need to do is stop comparing myself to them. As I’m busy lamenting the junk in my trunk, they are busy wondering why I haven’t chimed in on the discussion at hand. They are not judging me when I order a chicken sandwich with french fries for dinner and they get a salad…or ribs…and they don’t give a darn that if I had to loan them a rain coat they’d have to roll the sleeves up a few times. They love me for me, even if I tend to forget to send birthday cards and the movies I pick always turn out to be duds.
Somehow though, it is easier said than done…and I can’t help but wonder if my best friends make me look fat.
Daisy is a lawyer married to a lawyer (insert lawyer jokes here) living in a small condo in a big city with a new baby and beagle. She breaks up the legal-speak by blogging about life in Chicago, which is filled with escapades of urban living. In the summer she enjoys patio dining and in the winter wonders what she was thinking when she moved here. You can read more from Daisy on her blog, Just Daisy.