filler in the space.

They say the average American woman is a size 12/14. Average... what the hell does that mean? When I look out the window while driving in my car all the people I see are skinny runners. I go to the mall and I shamefully walk behind the skinny housewives in their size four Ann Taylor pants (and they're always white pants... what gives, white pants??).

I thought I would always support the "curvy is better" movement. Because... well, why not? I'm not into self-hate. I love me, cellulite and all.

But these days, all I see are walking health problems. The guests at work who can't walk fifty feet without panting uncontrollably, having to sit themselves down with a cup of overly sugared coffee and a fistful of donuts being shoved into their faces. It grosses me out how many people depend on the shitty coffee and donuts we pass off as "breakfast." What bothers me the most is that for most people we serve, it actually meets their standards for early morning nutrition.

Have a banana and drink some water. You'll feel better, I promise.

I haven't been a size 14 since... 6th grade. I remember because I would always steal my sister's jeans and it made me sad that she and I were the same size despite my being five years her junior. I rocked 16s through most of high school, sat at a solid 18 in college, and at the end of my suffering last year I was pushing into the 20s.

Needless to say, fourteen is not a number I expected to see anytime soon. Because 14 is average and I'm... not.

My best friend from college has been my support for the last seven years in our battle against the bulge. The ups and the downs, we did it together. But for the first time in the history of our relationship, we are both down, and significantly so. I tower over her 5'3" frame, myself standing at 5'9". The height difference never bothered us, but the numbers that tell our weight stories vary so wildly it's hard to relate on that level at times. Her current weight of 165 is at least 25 pounds away from a healthy level for her frame, but for me, I know beyond a doubt that seeing those numbers between my toes would signal the end of my weight loss journey.

Here is where most people would use the expression "I would kill for..." but the truth is, I wouldn't kill to switch weights with her. Not at all. Her 165 is not my 165. Sure, it's the same number, but we live on different planets. No two ways about it.

We do our best to avoid numbers; whether we like it or not, we can't relate in quantifiable terms. But we find other ways to communicate; case in point: clothes. Despite a 40 pound difference in college, she and I wore the same size. These days, are sizes are out of sync, but for once this is actually for the better. My bestie's success in her weight loss landed two barely-used dresses in my closet, both sporting a Size 14 tag. She invited me over to try them on before she tossed them out to charity. Naturally, I was apprehensive. I was nervous that despite all my efforts, the zipper wouldn't zip and I would yet again find myself in a hopeless position. Too fat for cute clothes.

Sure enough, the zippers didn't zip. But only just barely. Not only that, but my tiny 165 pound friend (who wears a 10/12 pant) was cursing me for looking better in the dresses than she did. The dresses went home with me and have been hanging on my closet door serving as inspiration to not eat that ice cream and as motivation for exercising when the bed is irresistibly warm and fluffy.

I didn't have a timeline for fitting into the dresses. Slow and steady, I say. Slow and steady. But when I wore a tennis bracelet from my boyfriend for the first time in months, I realized those dresses were not far out of reach. The bracelet was the first Christmas present I received from boyfriend, and it was the first indicator of the weight I had absentmindedly gained. The clasp wouldn't close around my wrist, but thankfully I know my way around a pair of pliers and I added a link to the chain to solve the problem. When the bracelet wouldn't clasp around my wrist a few months later, I buried it at the bottom of my jewelry box with a vow to myself to lose the weight. It's been years. On Friday, my silver shoes necessitated silver jewelry which is when I discovered my bracelet. The extra links I added now have to be removed -- the bracelet slides off my wrist.

I've had such anxiety about that bracelet, mostly stemming from the very real possibility that I'd never be able to wear it; it embodies everything I've struggled with over the last few years. But the bracelet not only fits, it slides up and down my forearm with such a pretty droop. If I can change my body to fit within the confines of the metal chain, surely I could wear a size 14 dress.

And today, I did.