You didn't think you'd spend the happiest day of your life bemoaning your saddlebags. You hadn't pictured yourself refastening your girdle five times. Of course you noticed that one patch of unshaven upper thigh hair. Same went for the tiniest pooch that poked over the top of your Spanx. It might as well have been a walrus sticking out from your belly, except that only you saw it. When you pulled your dress over your head, the pooch drowned under all the taffeta, invisible to any other eye, any camera.
You paid someone to do your hair. You paid someone to do your makeup. Why couldn't you pay someone to squelch that little voice?
You walk up the stairs to meet your father for your grand entrance. He is shaking. You quiver with disgust, not at him but at your thighs. They will jiggle as you go down the aisle. You want to tear up for the same or similar reasons as your father, but you can't. Instead of feeling the harp music, you feel the cellulite.
Christine Stoddard is a Salvadorian-Scottish-American storyteller and the founding editor of Quail Bell Magazine. Her work has appeared in The Feminist Wire, Bustle, The Brooklyn Quarterly, So to Speak, Hispanic Culture Review, the New York Transit Museum, and elsewhere. More at WordsmithChristine.com.