How long have I been overweight? It's hard to pinpoint exactly, because as a young child you don't really consider yourself in terms of pounds. I do recall being made fun of because of my size in about the third grade and by the fourth grade I was keenly aware I was different . . . and not in a fun, artsy, 'Punky Brewster' type way. I could tell you about the teasing and name-calling, but children are brutally honest and I think everyone accepts that fact.
But some simple truth is, that as we become adults, we don't want brutal honesty anymore. It hurts, so we'd rather the truth be subtly amended or just be downright lied to, before having another adult heap on anymore pain to our tired souls. It's an unspoken agreement between girlfriends, and I imagine men are mostly the same. "No, you don't look like a cow in that bathing suit; horizontal stripes are slimming!" "No, I don't think his weekly camping trips with the guys is a ruse to sleep with his Assistant." Or maybe we just take the more subtle approach, "Of course I think your son is adorable; he's just a little hyper, but it's cute when they're that young." (Note: That kid makes me want to tie my tubes every damn day) No matter the reasons, honesty can really hurt and we all know it.
So when my fellow fourth-graders began to call me ugly names and humiliate me on a daily basis, I felt like a freak who didn't know there was anything wrong with them 2 seconds ago. I had grown up with these children since I was three-years-old. We had played together, taken naps together, I'd even had my first kiss in the second grade with one of my current tormentors. (Yes, the second grade. He and I even had another schoolmate 'marry' us.) But now, I was that classic, after-school-special, outcast. I started throwing up my lunch on a weekly basis. It seemed like a pretty good solution at the time, and no, I had never even heard of bulimia or anorexia. It seemed like a good solution because I couldn't stand the idea of getting fatter and because it meant I got to go home each afternoon because I was 'sick.' It was the start of my emotions ruling my decisions making.
Emotions rule everything for women. I don't' think this is some great epiphany for most people, and I know some women would disagree, especially some of my female colleagues. However, it is the truth. Is it the same for men? I wonder. But men, LISTEN UP, emotions may rule our most basic decision-making skills, but it sucks and we know it. We don't like feeling weepy because of a Hallmark commercial or eating non-stop because we're pissed at our boss, but we do and it's better to acknowledge it and embrace it than it is to battle it. Why? Because at the end of any given day, our emotions enable us to put up with your crap and still love you. That being said, my emotional-eating started at full throttle in the fourth grade, and my combination of emotions continued over the many years and led me to here: Nearing 30, no serious relationships (of any kind), no clear career path, and OBESE.
When I go out to restaurants with people, no matter my current personal opinion of my weight and looks, one thing remains the same. I scan. I scan the entire restaurant when we first enter, and I really scan as we are led to a table. It's become second nature and I don't even think about it anymore. So what am I scanning for? An exit. And not because I plan on making some sort of 'James Bond' escape. I'm scanning to determine the best route for me to take in between other tables and patrons. Why? Because in these situations, it's important for me to blend in as much as possible. Which means it's important to me that I don't have to move empty chairs to get by and that I don't have to ask others to 'scoot in' their chairs for me to get through, as if that even helps. I still end up giving someone more flesh than they could ever want and I know comments are made. That is what I seek to avoid. It's bad enough to catch people staring and sneering when you've tried not draw any attention to yourself, it's monumentally worse when you have to ask them to adapt for your needs. That's why I only fly First Class, and am thankful I can afford to do so; I cannot stand even the idea of being one of those people asked to buy a second seat in Coach, or have a row-mate be cruel. I'm not even one of the severely obese folks who 'spill over' into the other seat or need the armrests to be in the 'upward position.' But I don't want to even take a chance that you will have to adapt for me or be uncomfortable on my account, I want to be 'normal', just like you.
I can only shop at Lane Bryant, and sometimes it's hard to find decent, fashionable, clothes there. So I make up with accessories. I have a Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and Gucci collection most middle-class women would kill for, I have a closet devoted entirely to shoes, and my jewelry is really top-notch. But at the end of the day, I would trade my Chanel bags, Louboutins, and diamonds for the ability to buy a sexy dress at Bebe or own a Chanel tweed jacket. I'm sure not every woman feels the same, but it's easy to walk into any department store or boutique and buy a new bag, some new shoes, or a great piece of jewelry; I can only go to one, singular, place for clothes. Don't get me wrong, I know this is such a trite issue in comparison to any other number of issues, and I am thankful to be able to afford LB clothes when other heavy women are stuck with Walmart, but it hurts to go shopping with girlfriends and know that there won't be a single store you can shop in the entire afternoon. I LOVE to shop, but not with friends, it hurts me too much and it's not fair to spoil their fun.
I've allowed my obesity to trap me. I go out at night less than ever before, I'm afraid to try and meet people, I'm afraid to go visit new places, I'm afraid of taking a leap with something and getting stuck in an embarrassing situation. I have about a thousand interests and passions, and I'm doing NONE of them. None. I stay anonymous in my apartment and try not to think about what I've become. I used to be fearless, I used to be bold, people called me 'strong.' They just didn't know . . . I was always wondering if they secretly made fun of me like those fourth-graders and just spared me the honesty.
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