adolescent hips

My hips are too big.
My school uniform skirt is larger than everyone else's.
You can tell when we have to take them off for gym.
We step out of our skirts and go to gym in our school shirts and whatever shorts we happen to be wearing that day.
We put our jewelry and skirts on the desks of the classroom before we leave.
My skirt is the biggest out of every row of desks.

My hips can't play sports.
They don't do well in gym class.
They dig into the ground when we lay down to start push-ups.

My hips don't fit into pretty jeans with decorative back pockets that the other girls wear on dress down days.
I wear boring jeans. Or chord pants.
They're my favorite pair of pants, navy blue with orange chords and trim.
They match perfectly with my long-sleeved monkey shirt.
Even more importantly, they match the colossal size of my hips. Adjustable.
Like my fluctuating weight.

My hips are the twin of Erin's.
Erin is the beautiful version of me.
She is my best friend, and it isn't fair.
She is blond, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned with rosy cheeks.

Erin and my hips play together at recess.
We stand in a circle with our friends.
Our hips can't play sports, so we talk.
We sway as we talk and bump our hips together.
Like a really cheesy old dance move.

If our hips are twins, why aren't hers too big?