You sing it sister!
Why if you’re a little chubby the world will refrain from comment so as not to upset ever so delicate you. If you’re skinny, and, God Forbid, you are jamming food in your face, it seems the whole world has the right to call you a skinny bitch, or worse. Because being stick thin makes you insensitive to such constant derision by all and sundry.
Can you tell I’ve stumbled through life as a stick person?
The worst is when you see a new doctor for something and you can tell from the questions they think you might have an eating disorder. The more you protest the more convincing you sound. I shut one doctor up by announcing, “I regularly eat a half a pizza a two a.m. and sleep like a baby!”
I often worked in bars with tons of other girls, all of whom seemed desperate to shed 5-10 lbs. I say desperate as it’s all they ever spoke about, I swear. When I would happen upon them it was all in good fun, “And we all hate you - skinny bitch!” I’d have given my right hand to have had actual jiggly parts instead of bits, but none of them was happy. And they were all beautiful women, I kid you not.
No one can truly know the joy until they’ve lived with the metabolism of a squirrel. Oh, the fun of it. So skinny every bump hurts like a kick in the shins. Every tap raises a bruise like you’ve gone a round with Joe Fraser. This train breaks down and I don’t have food for a few hours a turn in my nature will occur that will make grizzly bears tremble before me. You better pray to the God’s there’s some crackers in my purse!
Should you happen to also be short you can also look forward to drunken friends lifting you in the air. Because they just thought of it and because they can. “Hey, look, I can lift you over my head!”
“Hey look, if you drop me on my head I could die. Though I’m sure you’ll feel just awful when you sober up.” Keep you’re drunken mitts off me, thanks. {Well would you look at that, I’ve all but spelled out why I have my screen name!}
It was a very, very bitter pill for me to swallow when I realized I would never, could never, be bodacious. No kind of lighting or lingerie was going to make it happen. I don’t want to be cute, small furry animals are cute, I am an adult woman, damn it!
I didn’t choose my metabolism any more than you did. I do not value myself because of it and would appreciate you not using it as my measure.
Once we were headed just around the corner in a friends over crowded car, I made one too many. They all said she can sit on his lap, to which my husband loudly said, “She’s not sitting on my lap!” His friend sitting beside said I could sit on his lap and began to abuse my hubby, as in he’s a big woos as I don’t weight more than a bird, yada, yada, yada. By the time we arrived they were in agreement; it was like a bag of bones!
I soooo feel your pain!
“Oh, you want a lifetime disease that means you could have an ‘accident’ because you con’t get to a restroom on time, just to lose a few pounds?”