“They didn’t build this shit with fat people in mind” she sighed as she wriggled her way out of the just slightly too tight space behind the register.
“But you’re not fat, don’t say that,” he responded.
Tell that to the hips that got caught in a turnstile yesterday and everyday that she forgets to turn sideways. Tell that to the stores that stop at size 12 (or size 10 if she wanted to look her age). Tell that to the small woman rolling her eyes beside me on the subway as my booty spills over into her seat. Tell that to the holes my inner thighs have rubbed into every pair of jeans I own. Tell that to the rolls on my back & the crevices in my ass.
Tell that to the silence at the end of your sentence that should say “because fat people are ugly, because if I think you’re attractive you can’t be fat because I’m saving fat to degrade a woman two sizes smaller than you but with a flatter chest & a spare tire. Because you’re not fat is a compliment even when it’s not true because what I’m really saying is you don’t repulse me the way fat people are supposed to repulse me. Because I get final say on your body, not you & I’m giving you a pass for the same dimpled ass I laughed at on another woman yesterday because your waistline is smaller than hers and a normal woman would just be happy with that.”
“I am fat, I weigh 235 pounds.”
A look of wide-eyed disbelief tainted with just the slightest bit of disgust wells up in his face. A glance at her hips, her thighs, her stomach, her arms, her breasts. Looking for it. Finding it?
“Well it looks good on you.”