I don’t like returning to Los Angeles; the city reeks of rhinoplasty and trauma. But I needed to see my therapist and also get my hair dyed.
I landed on a Thursday and headed straight to Beverly Hills, proudly sporting Lulu Lemon and shoes way too practical to be cool.
I thought I fit in; blonde hair and Lulu Lemon are a Beverly Hills prerequisite. But now I’m a Brooklyn girl, I’ve bypassed bulimia. You don’t fit in with hot girls when nothing but leggings fit you anymore.
“Danielle, you’ve gotten fat.”
Hips don’t lie, least of all in leggings, and neither do childhood best friends, apparently.
“Actually Beth, I’m curvy.”
(Just kidding. I didn’t say that. I cried and deleted my Twitter.)
Whatever the term, I hated myself. My greatest fear was true: my scale wasn’t lying. I did look bloated. And since I’m a woman, I’m the…
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