Envy feels a lot like binging the more you give into it, the worse you feel.
My mother and I are in a department store dressing room. Old tags and hangers litter the carpeted floor. The fluorescent lights are too bright, and my skin looks more washed-out than usual. In the confined space, the physical disparities between us seem glaring. My mother, a Vietnamese woman, is petite and small-boned, with sleek and shiny black hair. I am tall, white-skinned, and broad-shouldered, with a figure an old boyfriend once called “robust.” This small dressing room reminds me of Alice in Wonderland when she eats cake and grows too large, bumping her head on the ceiling. In the three-way mirror, the differences between us feel multiplied.