Seated on the bus, I feel a roll of fat from under my ribs press against the pouch of my lower belly. It was exaggerated by the way my short stature makes me sink into the plastic seat, which extends to my knees and only the tips of my shoes keep me rooted to the ground. My boobs have gotten bigger in the past year, my chest slightly hunched, an acute soreness in my upper back. 

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It hadn’t always been there, this extra fat, extra weight. Movement has been consistent throughout my life, my metabolism is to die for, clothes always fit like a dream. No one seems to warn you, and other women, of the second puberty in your late twenties, when hips get wider to prepare for childbirth (if you so choose) and weight begins to distribute differently. I see the change in my arms and belly and thighs. My womanly form, a divine feminine, emerges, manifesting itself as I become a stranger in my own skin. A physique that once felt effortless and everlasting is now sexier and uncomfortable, we’re just getting to know each other. My babyface lessens, there’s meat on my bones, all the while my insecurities are more obvious. To me at least.

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Amid this change, my body keeps the score, in a different way than it has before, capturing a year of harsh realities and choices that had to be made, holding the feelings and their intensities safe in the stores of fat under my arms and between my thighs. Self-preservation and healing requires space, and come in healthier versions than others. The comfort I found in excess food and excess sleep eventually faded into lethargy and disappointment, stripping me down to the weight that I am responsible for adding to my own body. What once felt like protection became damage done sooner than I imagined — what a slippery slope. No one told me that either! 

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And now I have to pick up the pieces. I want to feel lighter in my body. I want forward folds and backbends uninhibited by the weight on my belly, I want clothes with the right amount of give. Unfortunately, sweet respites and cheap thrills, mischievous boosts of serotonin couldn’t be applied here. I feel all the more guilty, then, taking this bus to meet a friend for ice cream. 

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Don't count calories, just get the fucking ice cream, I think to myself, immediately followed by, but you already had a sweet treat at lunch…

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A woman roughly in her seventies enters the bus and sits next to me with a sigh. Her round body smells musky with hints of vanilla, her thighs touching mine. Her box-dyed red hair is wiry and sparse and stays stagnant even as she moves her head. There’s too much blush on her leathery skin, and her black eyeliner is far from subtle.  

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“Where did you get your nails done,” she asks a young woman sitting across the aisle, voice raspy. 

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The young woman looks up from her phone at the woman with a soft protective smile, still processing the abrupt conversation starter. 

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“I actually do them myself,” she replies.

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“What! But how did you get the flowers and different colors by yourself?” The old woman turns to me, “did you hear that? She does those herself.”

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I return a smile, raised eyebrows nodding my head.  

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“Oh I don’t know, I guess just practice,” the young woman giggles nervously. “It’s expensive to get your nails done, so I thought I could save a few extra bucks this way.”

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She begins to stand up and walks towards the door as the bus stalls at a red light. She’s getting off at the next stop.

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“I got all the nail polish and tools at CVS, it’s pretty simple. Have a nice night!” She finishes the conversation while exiting. As the doors close, the old woman turns to me. I smell spearmint on her breath. 

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“That girl is right, it’s way too expensive to get your nails done nowadays. When I was your age I was always getting my nails done. But guess how much it cost?”

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“How much?” I ask.

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“Seven dollars! Can you believe that?”

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“Oh wow,” the inflection in my voice goes up an octave out of politeness. “Yeah, it definitely doesn’t cost seven dollars. I don’t get my nails done anymore either. It would be $60 and the gel was ruining my nails. I like the short, bare look anyways.”

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She takes off her gloves to show me her round, plump fingers in response. Gold rings stacked across her hand, her cuticles dry and the pads of her hands rough. Her nails are evenly trimmed and with a clear coat of polish, though.

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“If I wasn’t on the bus right now, I’d show you my toenails too,” the old woman adds. I clench my jaw to keep my composure. “They look really nice, I promise. Not every woman my age has nice feet, so I’m proud of mine.”

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The old woman’s voice softens and she leans a little closer to me. “Fat old ladies can’t bend down to do their own toes, that’s the truth of it. But I can still bend down and give myself a pedicure. You know why?”

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Unsure if that was a real or rhetorical question, I respond, “no, why?”

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“Because I have discipline.”

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I pause, unsure how to respond, but the old woman continues uninterrupted. 

“You won’t see me eating dairy anymore. I have to make sure I keep my cholesterol down. I’m all about those plant-based alternatives: oat milk, coconut milk, almond milk. There really are so many these days and I take full advantage. There’s no way I’ll become a fat old lady, absolutely no way.”

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“That’s funny, I’m about to go meet up with a friend for ice cream. I could take a page out of your book,” I say with slight self-deprecation, expecting this to be a moment of shared comradery with another woman who has seen her body change and fluctuate with time and food and periods where you can't seem to find the time to exercise and decay and age. 

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Instead the woman stays silent for a moment, averting my eyes and tightening her lips. I think she’s judging me?

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“I could have done that maybe when I was your age, but like I said, discipline is now more important.” 

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The bus pulls to the corner of Fillmore and Sacramento. My stop. 

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“Well, I hope you have a good night,” I say to the woman.

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“You too, honey, bye-bye.”

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I met my friend outside the ice cream shop. “What do you think you’ll get,” he asks me as we wait in line.

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“I think I’ll just settle on a kids cone.”