Envy.

My heart sank with each blaring flaw my eyes widened upon in the mirror. I sucked in my stubborn pouch, righted my posture, pulled my hair up and immediately threw it back down. An elderly woman came out of one of the bathroom stalls. I jumped back to washing my hands and kept my eyes down from her judgement and my own.

Remember the positive thinking. We are each beautiful in our different ways, and those very differences are effortlessly and intrinsically beautiful unto themselves. Happy and healthy is the goal—not faux, magazine perfection. My self-worth is separate from my outward appearance. I am worthy of life’s wonderful things without gracing Vogue.

The door swung open as I dried my hands. A tall, thin woman entered, hair as long as her legs—the ideal that I so vehemently tried to convince myself doesn’t exist outside the airbrush radius of Hollywood. No. It just didn’t exist for me. That’s okay. Hatred plumed in my chest, for the swell of her breasts and for the modest slope of mine. She smiled her straight, bleached teeth at me. Great, stunning and polite. Bitch.

I gave her a tight-lipped semblance of a smile. Breathe. She’s beautiful in her way, and I’m beautiful in mine. It must be nice to own that type of beauty, though. The kind that stops traffic. The kind that assures you that passersby are gawking at your Grecian-statue face and not at a potential misfortune hanging out of your nose. Stop—confidence is chosen. It can be mine. It is mine. I’m stronger than this. I am—that bitch has the purse I wanted.