“I don’t want to get fat.”
It would be hard to work out on the road, she said, wadding up her running tights.
She was worried she’d get fat.
“God,” she said, making a face.
“I can’t even imagine.”
I was the thing Rena fearedfat, though people rarely used the word to my face.
Usually, they resorted to euphemisms:Plus-sized.
Rena caught me looking at our reflection and suddenly became very busy stuffing underwear into her shoes.
“It’s not just vanity,” she said.
“I don’t want to be unhealthy.”
When we shopped together, it was for her clothes, not mine.
Anyone would tell you that Rena and I each deserved our respective states.
She ran marathons; I devoured M&M’s at my law-firm desk while finishing late-night briefs.
We were what we ate, and she, clearly, had eaten a fit and attractive runner.
I fiddled with Rena’s toiletry bag, fingering the neat, miniature bottles.
(Waseverythingabout her undersized?)
Her words, however innocently intended, had upset me.
But what had she said that wasn’t true?
Rena didn’t want to look like me.
How could I blame her, when I didn’t want to look like me, either?
“you gotta address the fact that you’re obese.
Over the years, I’d been more and less overweight.
Then, suddenly, there was my doctor saying this awful word.Obese.
My skin grew hot with shamewhich must have been what he intended.
Except I didn’t believe in epiphanies.
It doesn’t take a doctor’s harsh wordsto make a fat person feel bad.
Try tuning in to the news reports on obesity.
“We’re fatter than ever!”
the announcer cries over stock footage of a woman’s thunderous thighs rubbing beneath her shorts.
Try feeling the sudden and desperate fear that one of the headless bodies on the screen might be you.
I know most people are simply trying to be helpful.
A girl in college once suggested I try her all-beer diet.
I never went back.
Yet, for the most part, they dress up clean and shiny.
A little concealer under the eyes, a new suit, and no one’s the wiser.
But no outfit, no matter how well cut, can hide that I am obese.
I began taking time to set out nice meals for myself rather than grazing guiltily throughout the day.
I discovered an untapped love for blueberries, raspberries and, surprisingly, brussels sprouts.
One of my teaching colleagues and I even signed up for a Step class.
She stopped to admire her pink plastic cell phone necklace until I persuaded her to get back to work.
“This man is f_t.”
The cartoon thin man had a rangy cowboy look about him.
The fat man was bald and wore a suit.
Alison tapped my arm, leaning in to whisper, “Thatboy is fat.”
Nips, I was relieved to note, did not seem to have weight issues.
Instead, I kept my mouth shut.
Neither Rena, nor Alison, nor my former doctor intended to be cruel.
But there’s a fine line between observing and criticizing, between understanding human weakness and judging it.
Recently, I saw my ex-doctor.
I’d gotten another sinus infection, and my new M.D.
I sat on the table in new size 6 jeans.
This time, the doc smiled, made jokes.
He promised to fix me up, asked about my prior infections.
He touched my back lightly on the way out, a little pat.
You would have thought that he was a different person.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of subject
