I peered warily down at my thighs oozing across the chair like pancake batter across a hot griddle.
Gross.
I glanced surreptitiously at the other girls sitting close to me. Their thighs behaved.
Why did mine take up so much space? I lifted them up off the chair just a tiny bit, making them smaller.
I was seven.
Seven.
I’d absorbed the message: shrink. Don’t draw attention to what’s wrong with you (and believe us THERE ARE THINGS WRONG WITH YOU).
Be good.
Be nice.
Then, maybe people will like you.
As if being liked was ever a worthwhile goal.