We were on the clock and supposed to be finding me a work uniform, but instead, Becca and I were trying on jeans at the Macy's across the street.

Becca was my beautiful, bubbly coworker who was, among other things, little. As in tall, but skinny. As in someone with a body type to envy.

That's why I assumed she'd lost her mind when she tossed the jeans she had just tried on over the dressing room wall to me and said, "Hey, try these."

"I am not the same size as you," I replied, shocked by the suggestion.

"You're exactly my size," she said, with a finality that left no room for debate.

So I figured I'd just show her how wrong she was. I pulled the jeans up my legs and over my hips, held my breath, and zipped. They fit. In fact, they fit perfectly without me even having to suck in my stomach.

Like a record scratch, I was stupefied—disbelieving as I stared silently at my reflection enveloped in the soft denim. It felt like I had awakened in someone else's body à la Freaky Friday. Because in my reality, I was a size 14 woman.

And Becca was a size four...

Does this story argue that standing on your tiptoes on the scale makes you weigh less?

Will my high school bully rue the day he called me ghetto booty?

Am I about to introduce you to an anthem that may make you ugly cry?

​Almost certainly. Come find out...​

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