Page 3 of Axe-identally Married
With my fill-in secured, I’d pulled an all-nighter so I could get my charting and coding done, the bane of my doctor existence, but necessary. In order to keep the lights on and the patients healthy, we needed to be paid. It wasn’t pretty, but I’d done it. I’d finished my list so I could party in Vegas.
The plan had been to sleep on the plane, but once I discovered the free WI-FI, I worked on posting an ad for a nurse practitioner. As the only practice in the county, we desperately needed the help. Dad disagreed, but I’d happily take a pay cut, and I was confident that if I found the perfect person, he’d come around.
Once I’d gotten the posting completed, I’d caught up on emails to my former mentors. The popular opinion there wasthat I’d dropped off the face of the earth, which got me paranoid about new studies I may have missed, so then I speed read a dozen journal articles to make sure I was caught up on any and all major breakthroughs in family medicine. It was cold and flu season, after all. I needed to keep current.
By the time I reached the Bellagio, I was dead on my feet.
My friends had texted, notifying me that they were already at the pool, so I let the bellhop lead me to the suite Magnolia had booked. Gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe the luxury. The king-size bed in my room was covered in a downy comforter that looked like it was made from clouds and piled so high with pillows I wondered if I’d need a stepstool to get into it.
In order to keep my eyes open, I’d turned on my energizing playlist and set to work gently hanging all my cute Vegas clothes in the closet.
Retail therapy had gotten me through the last year.
For most of my adult life, I’d believed that if I enjoyed frivolous, feminine things, it would make me unserious. And I was very, very serious, and I had been since birth. But in the last few years, I’d begun to appreciate the simple pleasures that came in the form of good shoes, a skincare routine, and a fresh manicure.
Maybe it was finally earning that board certification. Maybe it was turning thirty. Or maybe I just didn’t give a shit anymore. But slowly, I was figuring out what I liked.
And I liked clothes, I liked color, and I liked makeup. I was tired of wearing black in an effort to look slimmer.
Growing up, I’d been ashamed of my body. Always wondering why I couldn’t have long legs and skinny arms and a flat stomach. I’d spent decades trying and failing to achieve the feminine perfection that magazines and TV had taught me to covet.
So, naturally, I was the kid who refused to get in the water at pool parties, and I spent my summer wearing long pants instead of shorts because I was embarrassed of how thick my thighs were in comparison to the skinny legs it seemed all my friends had. I’d layer multiple sports bras to flatten out my chest.
Eventually, I gave up. There was no time to obsess about my body or stress about the diameter of my hips or my round face while slogging through med school.
During that time, the strangest thing happened. The less energy I gave to concerns about my body, the more I began to enjoy and accept it.
After grueling shifts at the hospital, I’d mindlessly scroll Instagram, discovering that it was filled with gorgeous women of all shapes and sizes giving fashion and beauty advice. I saw girls who looked like me—really well-groomed and stylish versions of me—looking hot as hell rocking their curves.
It started as a few pairs of heels.
Then I uncovered an unrealized love of dresses and skirts. Each garment I slipped on made me feel feminine and put together. After decades of hiding beneath jeans and baggy shirts, a cute dress with a swishy skirt felt revolutionary.
Next I found facials and cycling classes and coconut-oil deep conditioner.
And pretty soon, I had left the chubby ugly duckling behind and had become an actual grown woman who had her shit together.
While residency in Baltimore hadn’t afforded me many opportunities for glamour, I’d been ready for my New York debut.
For my fresh start.
Willa 2.0. The Willa who practiced self-care and bought nice clothes that flattered her curves rather than black stretch leggings from Target and oversized T-shirts.
The staggeringly confident doctor who made the city her bitch, all while looking great.
After all, the three of us—Magnolia, Lila, and I—had been dreaming of this day since high school. While our twenties had taken us on diverging paths, I had been counting down the days until I could move in with my best friends, have more control and autonomy over my career, and truly figure out who I was and who I wanted to be.
But after years of dreaming and planning, that vision had been wiped away and redrawn. When my beloved, brilliant father suffered a stroke, I’d moved back to my tiny hometown and had spent the last few months caring for him while taking over his medical practice.
“Get over here and get a drink,” Magnolia ordered, snapping me out of my reverie. “And take off the caftan. Get some vitamin D.”
My pool outfit was the result of a late night and a bottle of wine.
I’d never worn a bikini before. In fact, throughout my entire childhood, I swam with a T-shirt on. So this was a big step for me. But the plus-size models on the website had looked incredible, and I had been feeling sorry for myself.
Maybe it was too sexy? But was anything really too sexy for Vegas? I was thousands of miles from my parents and the townsfolk who’d known me my whole life. All these attractive strangers were too busy drinking and enjoying the sunshine to care about my cellulite and soft tummy.
The top was bra style, with underwire cups, necessary for my 36H girls. But the cups were low-cut and had straps that crisscrossed over my breasts. The bottoms were high-waisted, with additional crisscrossing straps up the sides of my hips.
