My husband emailed me an attachment called “photo.jpg.” He does that a lot, sending me emailed attachments with generic names, no subject lines, and no text. I think most of his emails are spam.

Photo.jpg came this morning while he was on the phone with a friend, fiddling on the computer in his study, and I was outside writing in my preferred office—a deck chair. I took my chances on the attachment, opening it to find me, from a week ago, standing next to the train in New Mexico. I’d asked him to take it. I stood confidently, feeling like the explorer I imagined myself to be, wearing my new muted green khakis, brown tank top, and Jackie O. sunglasses. We were halfway through the train journey, stopping for an hour to eat and explore. My grandpa was reminiscing with his buddies about previous years working on the railroad while my husband and I walked along the tracks. I’d just finished the Thanksgiving-themed meal, and I felt good.

I looked fat. Under examination, my head seemed tiny compared to the bottom half of my body. My khakis were creased at the hips, my upper arms looked meaty, my face reminded me of the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s, and I write this just after deciding not to go to the gym but to blog about looking fat instead.

When I was in New Mexico, everyone made me feel beautiful. Getting in the passenger side of the rental car, my husband hugged me from the back seat. My grandpa reached over to squeeze my hand. “It’s good to see you,” he said. The small railroad town was full of old men that were eager to tell a young gal about their days as a pilot, or a soldier, or a mandolin maker. Walking across the dusty tracks in a dress transformed me into Marilyn Monroe. Eyes peered out from old boxcars and woodwork shops. All doors were opened before I got to them. I wore more sunscreen and less makeup. I stopped obsessing over my zits, and my face cleared up.

So why, at home, does the beauty not translate? Why does my inner gorgeousness not outweigh my physical appearance or my own mental projection of my physical appearance? I don’t know. But I do know this. Secret Thirty-Two, Revealed. I’d rather live my life beautifully feeling like Marilyn than looking like Kate Moss and critiquing every bulge.