I am fat.
No, seriously, people from work think I am. It is not enough that I’m super-gooey nice to them or that I’m smart, funny and can get along well with just about anybody. I simply don’t fit into that Barbie girl archetype. Not that I want to be Barbie. She’s too blond and dull for my type. Plus her wardrobe’s not that great.
Since time immemorial, I think I have always been self conscious about my weight. In a society flogged down by skinny girls in skimpy clothing, Thin is in. Anything less than that or should I say more than that is just not right. Whatever.
What I don’t get is that in the polite world, people don’t say “Hey, you’re looking uglier each day” or “You’re looking shabbier than the last time I saw you…” But how many times have I been told that I’m getting fatter or that my butt’s getting in the way? I get this all the time. From people who love me and from those I barely know. I wouldn’t mind though if my mother tells me I’m fat but when I get it from someone who barely knows me and who looks like an old goat, that’s a totally different thing. I’m actually getting better in my don’t-look-pretend-you’re-busy technique in this situation.
I’ve tried different diets before–the after six diet, low-carb high protein diet, cabbage soup diet, just not eating diet. It worked for a while until I got tired and decided, what the heck, I’ll eat what I want. The thing is that people have different lifestyles and body types. Apparently, the illiterates, as my beau would describe, just don’t get it.
One shirt says it all: I’m fat. So what? You’re ugly and I can always go on a diet.