I hate the minipill.
I’ve been on it for… this is the third month, according to the pharmacy. So two and a half months. I no longer know my own body. That is not a pleasant feeling. I used to bleed every twenty-eight days, a welcome reminder that no, I wasn’t pregnant, and a way to keep time. Now I use a phone app to tell me the same things. I hate not knowing when it’s safe and when I’m potentially In Trouble. I hate wondering whether that surge of nausea is the first sign of said Trouble. I tested and it said no last month. Shall I keep testing every three months, just to be sure?
I used to be able to trust my body to tell me when everything was going to happen, and it worked, it really did. I felt the ebb and, pardon my language, flow. Now the hills and the valleys have gone and all is static. Flat. Speaking of flat, I’d swear my breasts have withered. The extra acne I can write off to stress, but the shrinking bosoms? Good God, I really am at so low a weight that the old pill was sustaining me! You have to understand that I probably interrupted my own growing-up sometime between sixteen and eighteen, when I managed to drop twenty pounds from an already-spare frame. So no real breasts for Cassie, and very little in the way of hips until I regained (so briefly!) to above a hundred pounds. Just the barest lumps of milk duct and a hint of fat to protect them.
I have half-breasts. It is humiliating to think this every time I look in the mirror, but I do think it; the thought leaps forward, writes itself in neon cursive above my head. I HAVE HALF-BREASTS. I feel hideous. I feel vaguely deformed, even, because some flat-chested women have a nice, even distribution of sinew to keep things uniform. My breasts are ski jumps, concave on top.
I’m turning sexless. (In many ways. I hope a certain way is also stress.) All I have to mark me as a woman is a good head of hair and a vaguely broadened bottom. Also a distinct lack of dangle. I’m twenty-six and I could still cut my hair short, bind my chest, and pass for a prepubescent boy. Pray to whoever’s listening that I’ll never have to wear my hair short again, at least. And I am short, short, short! If I were tall, I could drag it up! I could model! But at this height, the only reaction I’d get to either pursuit would be laughter.
“You, little man? You, halfling child?”
Still capable of the other tortures that come with being female, saving the most reassuring. Just unable to reap the benefits now, unless I pad myself out and cinch myself in. Perhaps I’d be pretty if this were the Regency and we were all dressed as columns; it is not, the trending figure is hourglass, and I am turning into a ruler.
No wonder I dreamed I was hobbit kin.