Smack.

I have this friend Chris who I lived with this summer. I love Chris. He's hysterical, extremely open, and not afraid of who he is. I was over the house where I lived on Saturday night. We were just goofing off and Chris smacked my ass when I turned around to put an egg roll in the microwave.

"Oh wow!" he said. "I was expecting more butt!" Or something like that; I'm not a pro at remembering exact quotes.

"I know!" I said. "I lost a lot of weight!"

"I didn't even realize how much this there was no butt there!" he said. "It's good though, because you're a nice size for a girl. You're not scary looking."
"I used to be," I said. "And then I got big. And then I got normal."

Normally, a conversation like this would ruin my day. It would cause me to go home and wallow in self pity. Maybe I wouldn't eat for days, or I'd sob, or I'd create a scar. But something has clicked in my brain lately. I'm a good size. It stung a little to hear; I've always just wanted to be tiny and fragile and weak. But why...? Why would I not want to be statuesque, proportional, and strong? With muscles? Someone who looks beautiful just the way she is. There was something about hearing it from Chris that made me okay with it. I never thought I'd be okay with someone telling me I was average when I always strive to be exceptional.