The weather has finally warmed up and I hate that I’m inside at a desk instead of outside running through the grass barefoot. I keep glancing at the clock, tapping my heels impatiently on the carpet under my desk. It’s my first job out of college and I can’t believe this is what an adult does. Sits at a desk. On the most beautiful spring day of the year.

I feel pretty, though. (OH SO PRETTY.) In a new pale pink skirt that flares out in just the right way, my hair falling on my shoulders just so. Yes, my fierceness is being wasted in an office. But looking good is looking good. I stand up to get some more water from the kitchen when my co-worker Iris crosses in front of me and stops.

“LAURA!” she exclaims. “You look so pretty today!”

“Thank you, Iris!”

She follows me into the kitchen and I press my finger down on the water spout, releasing cold liquid into my paper cup.

“You know,” she says, with her hands on her waist. “You are so tiny right here.”

“Oh! Really?” I’m embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“Yes, you are!”

“Well, thanks again. Thanks.”

I take my cup and move to head back to my desk when she speaks again.

I turn and see her hands move down to her hips, watching me carefully.

“But wow, you really are so wide right here.”

I spit out a forced laugh.

“Birthing hips! You know!”

I quickly race past her, lock the door of the office bathroom, stare myself down in the mirror, will the tears to stay down. I fail.

…

I was away at college when my brother met her, started dating her, slipped a ring on her finger. We’re getting married. Well, there’s no way around it. It’s Thanksgiving and I hope I like her. I hope she likes me. I hope our family doesn’t make her run for the hills.

She is very very quiet and so very pretty, doe-eyed with dark hair, a frail arm looped through my brother’s at all times. Everyone remarks on her thinness, her itty-bitty waist. She is the opposite of most members of my family and the contrast is stark.

After the initial introductions, everything gets easier. We settle into place, sitting in the living room in groups, munching on chips and dip and veggies and pretzels. Tom and I regale the room with stories from college, that crazy theater department! Those crazy professors! Hilarity, I tell you, hilarity.

Later, she hovers next to me as I fill a small paper plate with items from the dessert table. I’m having trouble deciding between Italian pastries and various baked-from-scratch pies when she says my name.

“Yes?”

“Are you really going to eat all that?”

“All what?” I ask, staring down at my plate which currently holds two chocolate chip cookies and a mini cannoli.

“All that dessert. I mean, do you really think you should?”

I pause.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I offer, dejectedly.

“Still.”

“Right. Good point.”

I turn away from her at this point and plunk myself down on the nearest chair. My appetite for sugary comfort foods has suddenly vanished. I sulk the rest of the evening.

…

I’m always starving after performing two shows in a row. I am the first one out of the dressing room, the first one to begin disassembling the set, hesitant to open my mouth to any of my cast members because I’m hungry and if I know anything, I know that when I’m hungry, I get snippy. I cannot wait to get the hell out of the theater and into a restaurant. I don’t care what kind, I don’t care what they serve, all I need is to make the hunger pangs stop. And to eat approximately 10,000 pounds of whatever is being offered.

Traveling in groups is frustrating for many reasons but my number one pet peeve is that it takes longer than usual for us to get our food. Sometimes, we split up into tables of two or three to speed up the process. But today, of course, we are in one big circle of seven and by the time the waitress comes over to me, I am ready to take a huge bite out of her forearm.

“I will have a club soda, a turkey  sandwich with swiss and OH! Also a cup of soup please.”

I hand her the menu as my co-worker Jon randomly blurts out, “SOMEBODY’S HUNGRY TODAY, HUH? That’s a lot of food, don’t you think?!”

The table is silent.

“Jon,” snaps my castmate, Melissa. “It isn’t polite to comment on a woman’s food choices.”

“But! I was just—”

“NO EXCUSE. NEVER. NOT OKAY.”

He turns to me, his cheeks flushing scarlet.

“I’m sorry, Laura.”

“It’s okay, Jon. I am a fatass. I am willing to own that.”

Everyone laughs but I lock eyes with Melissa and silently send over my gratitude. Thank you. She gets it. She knows.

An automatic sisterhood we belong to simply because we are women. It’s compounded by the fact that we are actresses and are used to being judged on our appearance regularly. I know she jumped to my defense because she shares in my struggle. That people have, without provocation, pointed out her physical flaws too, have nitpicked her dessert plate, have embarrassed her in front of others for what she chooses to eat. She was stronger than me, braver, refused to sit on the chair and sulk and instead chose to call it out.

I vow to stand up for myself next time. I vow to order a cheeseburger and fries next time we go out, just because on tour, I’ve been eating nothing but salads and turkey sandwiches. I vow to never judge another woman again.

I break every single one of these vows.