BY Madison Nanney
1. polypropylene stadium seating
2. cast-iron patio chairs with the arms
3. movie theater recliners with sides that don’t lift (screw the man that put the button on the arm, my thigh now controls the ups and downs)
4. adirondacks
5. the place at the table that’s too close to the wall, too close to let my little nephews through during the Thanksgiving dinners my body tells me not to eat
6. those white, plastic lawn chairs in every friend’s backyard
7. wooden adirondacks
8. banquet seats at the tables of weddings I only go to
9. plastic-wood chairs at every graduation
10. booths with tables that are bolted to the ground (who’s stealing the perch that the fold of my belly rests upon?)
11. rocking adirondacks
12. fellowship hall metal folding chairs, the ones that creak when even the children sit to color in the cross on their sheet
13. the bony lap of the man who didn’t love me back
14. the passenger seat of every 2012 Honda Accord
15. plastic adirondacks
16. stools of any height (my ass is not the circumference of a dinner plate)
17. the couch cushion I dent when my grandmother tells me to just lose the weight
18. the edge of my bed that dips on the mornings of first dates
19. the wooden swing on my front porch that groans in sync with my moans of not feeling good enough, not feeling great, not feeling thin enough to sit in a seat