Most people sing when they’re in the shower. They perform one-woman shows that astound their audiences. The shampoo bottle might join in for a duet. But I do not.

I talk to the spider web I spotted in the top corner of the wall above the door frame. I don’t always see the spider that built the web, but I know she’s up there somewhere in the bathroom. So I talk to her. I trust Mrs. Spider to tell me the unbiased truth. We talk about me and my imperfections.

“Are my legs too short?

Look at my thighs… There’s no thigh gap Mrs. Spider… Look at them jiggling. Am I not disgusting?

I think my butt’s too fat… What say you?
I turn so Mrs. Spider can see.

Is my waist too wide?

Aren’t I obese? Ugh, I should give up food

I look like a boy… Where are my boobs?

Ugh, isn’t my face so disgusting?

Oh man, it looks like I have one eyebrow… But I got them done two days ago Mrs. Spider. Do you think I need to visit the lady again?

DO YOU SEE THESE SPLIT ENDS MRS.SPIDER!?

Geez, Can this zit not? It looks like it’s taking over my face. At this point Mrs. Spider, it’s bigger than my nose.

My God, the pores on my face are huge. Can you see them from your web Mrs. Spider?

I should stop biting my nails Mrs. Spider, look at them…

Oh Mrs. Spider why am I so ugly?”

At this point, salty tears mix with the hot water pouring from the showerhead. I increase the temperature and the scalding water comforts me as I cry myself out.

I can trust Mrs. Spider to agree with me. She’s not like my friends who keep reassuring me that I’m the thinnest of our group. She’s not like my mom who tells me I’m beautiful. She isn’t my sister who tells me she wishes she had my figure. Mrs. Spider isn’t my dad who calls me Miss America. I don’t know if the rest of the world is blind or stupid, but they’re all lying to me.
It doesn’t matter that I’m a model, I know I’m ugly. There’s always someone more beautiful on the cover of the competitor’s magazine. I know that there’s a reason they have to Photoshop a million inches of my waist. There’s a reason I can’t button my Size 0 jeans without sucking in my stomach.

The steam in the shower rises high, but my insecurities rise higher. They threaten to suffocate me. The false layer of confidence I wear peels off. I let those impossible standards of beauty tighten their hold around my neck. I. Can’t. Get. Enough. Oxygen. I grab the handle and shut the shower off desperately. I take a shuddering breath as I attempt to unsuccessfully rebuild my crumbling wall. But, as I wrap my towel around my waist, I become the confident and “beautiful” girl people like. Who would like me if they knew who I was in front of Mrs. Spider? Even I don’t like me.

Until Tomorrow, Mrs. Spider.