I Don’t Fit Me Anymore

I remember I was six when I looked down at my favorite frock; white, red and blue, as it didn’t roll down my chest as effortlessly. I squinted my eyes as I squished my body into it. It felt different. I went to the mirror, eased out the pleats with my left hand, as I tilted my head to the right. I looked nervous. I felt uncomfortable. It was my favorite, and it didn’t fit me anymore, like it used to.

I wore it to the ground to play, secretly hoping that someone would figure out how fond I was of that one frock and would sit me down and talk to me about changing bodies, about how our bodies outgrow our clothes.

But no one did. To everyone else, I was the same kid, with the ‘boy cut hair’, as they used to call it back in those days, oiled carefully to the scalp. The same kid with the same pair of nerdy glasses. The same kid with nothing changed about her. The cricket match went on as it did.

I came back home that evening. I got myself out of that dress in my room, gave it a not-so-well-done fold and kept it in the loft. Never looked back at it again, with a sense of new found adulthood.

About almost a score of years later, I feel the same way. Again. I looked down at my hands, pale pink with a tinge of peach, as they refused to fit into another pair of hands as they used to. I squinted my eyes as I picked up my cellphone and texted, “I am fine. :)”. It felt different. I went to the mirror, ran my fingers through my hair with my left hand as I tilted my head to the right. I looked nervous. It felt uncomfortable. I liked the girl I used to be. But I don’t fit that ‘me’ anymore, like I used to.

I went out with a few people that night, wearing my old smile, praying that someone would figure out that I was drowning in an inertia of ‘me-ness’, and would sit me down and talk about changing minds, about how we outgrow our own selves.

But no one did. To everyone else, I was the same woman with long carefree and undone hair, with the same nerdy glasses. The woman with nothing changed about her. The party went on as it did.

I came back home that night. Washed my face and sat down at the edge of the bed, and gave myself a not-so-well-done cry, and shook it all off, with a new found sense of childishness.

At six, the frock didn’t fit me anymore.
At twenty-two, I don’t fit me anymore.