She's ten years old again, and the boy on the bench calls her fat.

She's fifty now, and she has a loving husband.

She's ten again and she believes him.

She's fifty now, and looks better than Cinderella in that dress of hers.

She's twelve again, and she scrapes the food around on her plate.

She's fifty now, and blows out her birthday candles, eating a whole piece of cake.

She's thirteen again, and pinches the fat on her stomach.

She's fifty now, and flaunts her beauty.

She's fourteen again, and learns she can throw up her food to lose weight.

She's fifty now, and only throws up when she's sick.

She's fifteen again, and can fit her wrist in a shot glass.

She's fifty now, and wears a lustrous, gold watch.

She's sixteen again, and she's cut from the musical because she ruined her voice.

She's fifty now, and she's the lead in musicals all over Boston.

She's sixteen again, and the doctor tells her she'll never have kids.

She's fifty now, and has two loving boys.

She's seventeen again, and can wrap her hands around her thighs perfectly. 

She's fifty now, and doesn't worry about her appearance.

She's eighteen again, and she says she's not good enough.

She's fifty now, and she knows she's good enough.