Free Queen of the Oddballs by Hillary Carlip Page A

as I slowly unbuckled one brown sandal. I was twenty-five pounds overweight, and letting a whole group witness all that flesh in the flesh was not my idea of fun. Yet to not participate would be even worse. I’d still be fat, and I’d be a loser.
    I took a deep breath and gradually untied my embroidered peasant blouse. Another inhale and I slid out of my jeans. The others were already naked, watching me, so, my face turning red hot, I swiftly removed my bra and underwear and crossed my arms over my body, hunkering down into the rug.
    Our circle of naked girls sat surrounded by the sculptures of African women with pendulous breasts as if we were participating in some tribal initiation. Jill nodded at us in approval. “The patriarch and the media teach us to hate our bodies. Women don’t look like the bone-thin models in ads and commercials. We refuse to buy into the bullshit,” she pronounced.
    “Right on!” Cathy shouted, raising her fist in the air, revealing her hairy armpit.
    “It’s bullshit!” several others chimed in.
    “So tonight,” Jill continued, “we’re gonna get into the middle of the circle, one at a time, and share at least three things we love about our bodies.”
    “Wow!” “Cool!” “Far out!” Everyone was keyed up. I was mortified.
    Just one year earlier my parents had taken me to Weight Watchers. Only five feet tall, I shed 22 of my 140 pounds in three months, and the program awarded me a diamond achievement pin. But one week later I returned to my life of Sara Lee banana cake, Pepperidge Farm coconut cake, and Scooter Pies, and I gained back every pound, plus extra. My weight, I told myself, was a political statement—fat was a feminist issue. I was proving that I could love my body no matter its shape or size. I ate what I wanted to, when I wanted to, and I was proud of it. Or at least I thought I was. Until that night.
    One by one, my naked friends stepped into the middle of the circle and sat.
    Ava was first. I couldn’t help but notice her shapely, large breasts. Her stomach was flat and tight, and she was blessed with the kind of curvy perfection that could have landed her on the pages of one of those offending magazines we plastered with stickers.
    “I really love my calves. They’re muscular and strong,” she began. “I love my thighs, my waist, and my belly.”
    Who the hell loves her belly? I fidgeted, the nubs of the hand-woven African rug poking into my bare ass.
    Ava smiled and returned to the circle as Molly, tall, blond, and striking, bounded into the middle and sat.
    “I love my eyes and my nose. My stomach’s cool, so are my legs. Actually, though, I hate my butt. It’s—”
    Jill interrupted. “We’re only talking about what we love tonight. No judgments.”
    “Oh, well, then that’s it.”
    To my relief Sarah was next. She was even more overweight than I was and extremely hairy. Everywhere. Surely she would have a hard time finding things she loved about her body.
    I eagerly sat forward, but Sarah grinned. “I love the rolls on my stomach, my big womanly thighs, and my childbearing hips. But mostly, I love my hairy chest.”
    I felt nauseous and light-headed.
    I was next in the circle. I rose slowly and shuffled into the middle. I sat with my knees up and my arms crossed, hiding as much of my perspiring body as I could.
    “Well,” I began, my voice shaking, “I like my teeth. You know what, I love my teeth.” My head down, I stared at the rug so I didn’t have to meet anyone’s gaze. Instead I saw my unshaven legs with wiry dark hairs swirling across pale skin, my flabby stomach, and a bright red pimple on the inside of my fat left thigh.
    I had to come up with something else, and fast.
    “Um, oh, my hands are great. They’re strong and dexterous. Uh…then…let’s see….” I stammered, “Well…you know, uh….”
    I couldn’t think of one other thing.
    Suddenly I felt a tear dripping out of the eye I couldn’t even say I loved, onto the