Not that I, at 5'6", am short, precisely. It's just that I tended to hang with a rather stately group of girls, making me feel more self conscious than I otherwise might have. I felt short. At the same time, I felt gawky, due to some poorly-timed, though well-meant, comments from my mother.

"You have such a long neck," she told me, just as I was descending into the earliest parts of adolescence.

Long neck? Giraffes have long necks; ostriches have them, too. Not pretty girls. I immediately saw myself as a short girl with her head on a long stalk. I think this may have been the first negative body image I ever had of myself. There would be many more to follow, but this was the first. Perhaps I should have raised a toast to commemorate the event.

Golly, didn't my mother have a knack with words? This line was delivered to me one evening as I flossed my teeth; I remember it vividly. I may have been about ten years old, and I had never before given much thought to my weight. I had grown up watching my mother eat her Slim Fast breakfasts, fiddle with her Weight Watchers wheel, and buy two-liter bottles of diet soda, which nobody in the house but she could touch. None of that applied to me; I was the kid who always asked for seconds at dinner, and could eat a whole pot of Dad's chili if allowed. In fact, Mom knew when I was coming down with chicken pox before I ever sprouted a spot: I refused any breakfast, clueing her in that something was up.

But Mom said my thighs were fat. That was news to me, and I took it to heart. I began looking around; sure enough, the other girls' thighs didn't plump up against their chairs in school the way mine did. Their bellies (already a source of jealousy for me, for my "outie" navel embarrassed me greatly) appeared much flatter. Why had I never noticed this? I was the fat one!

I retreated into a shell. Not only was I short and fat, but I lacked coordination. In actuality, I was probably merely average at most athletics, but a combined lack of real interest with a newly-developed negative self image worked to keep me from engaging in sports any more than necessary. I couldn't run fast, so why run at all?

I have a memory of one afternoon in fifth grade in which I actually ran well in gym class, and the class athlete cornered me after class to tell me to stop trying to run faster than her, because I never would. Meekly, I conceded. I wouldn't do it again.

In junior high, I made a new friend. Jessica was an athlete, unlike any of my other girlfriends, and she convinced me to give sports a try. Because of her, I ran cross-country, and while I wasn't very good at it, I was not the worst, and I began to see myself in a more positive light. I played softball, volleyball, and basketball. I wasn't bad! I may still have been "short and fat," but at least I wasn't as clumsy as I had feared.

When I danced in a musical in seventh grade, another child's parent managed to shatter me once again.

"I didn't know you were coordinated!"

I took my pastor's son to my junior prom. I was the one to ask for the date, and though I had a pleasant time, I ached with jealousy of the girls who had real dates. That was my first date; I was sixteen. My first real date didn't come until the following year, and...well, I've written about how that went. Perhaps if I'd liked what I saw in the mirror every morning, or even some mornings, I'd have been more able to choose a boyfriend who suited me.

I never flirted with Eric until after we were dating, after I knew that he like me. He was a friend of another guy I was dating, then he was my friend, and then, before we both knew it, we were dating. We shared our first kiss without ever thinking about it; he walked me to class, we kissed goodbye, and I was sitting at my desk before I realized what had transpired. My body wasn't an issue; we loved each other, regardless of how we looked.

With Eric, I came full circle. I was the little girl who looked in the mirror and didn't see "fat," "short," "gawky," or "uncoordinated." I was simply Carrie.

When I think about the sabotage that I and others did to my childhood, I want to weep. Those thoughtless comments robbed me of my innocence; my own misperceptions reined in my carefree play. How could I have let that happen? I wasn't strong enough in myself to fight.

I still feel a bit of the old anxieties every once in a while. Amy sent me a description of the bridesmaid dresses we may be wearing, and when I heard that they have straps instead of sleeves, my thoughts flew to my chunky arms. When she told me that the maid of honor is a size 4, I immediately saw myself as the "fat one" again. I hate doing that. I want to stop, and most times I can, but not often enough for my tastes.

I'm working on losing the weight, but the problem's in the eyes, not the hips!