If it Happens Again I'm Screamin'

I have to say that my being a size 6 doesn't boost the morale of many women who walk into Talbots. Comparing my body--a collection of limbs and parts that managed to survive adolescence and college with only 15 extra pounds clinging to bones--with that of a woman who has squeezed out four or five children, has developed a strange disease known as wrinkles, and has had a decrease in estrogen and elasticity due to a battle with the blessed menopause seems highly unfair. So stop. Please.

Just let me have a look at you, let me see your battle scars, the marks that make you who you are. And let me be reminded that in thirty years when 15 pounds grows to 30 or when my stretch marks expand and cellulite becomes more prominent than skin, I can remember having seen you, you beautiful, aged women who have worn your years well.  And please, believe me when I tell you that I am not trying to make you look younger: your pants will not sit too low, your shirt will not show sagging cleavage.  I will do my best to hide the bad and highlight the good.  Just let me do my job.  And stop staring at my ass--it isn't a size 2 so you can breathe. It's only a size 6.