Look, the lack of posts around this joint are pretty indicative of my work-outs and the plethora of cokes going into my belly. One might say I fell off the wagon. I didn’t mean to. I could give you a million reasons (i.e. excuse) why this happened but the sad truth is, I forgot why I wanted to quit drinking cokes, stop eating dessert with every meal, work out, etc. I lost my connection with the honor that my body deserved. This all became quite clear in the last 48 hours.
I looked in the mirror the other night and had on a tank top. I hated the way it hugged my pooch. I turned to the side and hated the dimples in my thigh. I got really close to the mirror and hated the bags under my eyes. I hated the way my arms sat against my body. I hated everything that I saw in that mirror except my hair. I didn’t know the girl looking back at me. She was tired and lost. I had never despised what I was looking at so much. The only saving grace was when the boyfriend, God bless his soul, who knew none of the thoughts in my head, came up and kissed the back of my head and whispered, “Damn Whit, you are hot.” I will tell you it took everything I had not to cry in that very moment, but I held it together and just gave him a hug.
I wondered if he knew what was going through my head. Then I reminded myself who I was dating. Of course he didn’t. He just calls it like he sees it, and he certainly isn’t one to sugar coat or stroke an ego. I wanted so badly to see what he saw, and I was so angry I didn’t cause not even a month before, I was starting to see the “hot chick” in there. Then last night happened.
I work part-time at a bar. Hey, holiday season is rough y’all. A gentlemen who had come in a couple of times came and sat down. We were chit chatting and trading first kiss stories. Specifically, “last first kiss stories.” It was pleasant. We went back and forth about his wife and my boyfriend. All was quite pleasant. I was sitting down chatting with my boyfriend feller when my regular came and said, I need a picture to send to my friend. I never looked up, and just said no. As the night progressed and the boyfriend left, I was sitting and chatting with my regular.
He said, “The picture I took of you was terrible.”
“What?” I was quite confused.
“Look.” As he showed me the picture he made on fatal mistake. He went into the text convo instead of the picture itself. The picture where as it wasn’t my best, it was not the worst, but the comment that was before it in the text thread broke my heart. “send me a pic of the fat chick.”
I felt every part of my soul cringe. I was the fat chick. Do I say something? No cause I would start crying if I did. You can not cry at a bar, especially if you are working. I just ignored it. I didn’t know what to say. How could I be angry, I looked in the mirror not even 24 hours prior and thought the same thing, “Look at that fat chick staring back at me.” I was so angry too, and not at him, but at me. I believed him. I believed that I was nothing more than a fat chick. I had for the past week.
When did I start calling myself fat again? I hate that word. It makes me cringe. Furthermore, when will we, myself included, stop defining ourselves and others by their physical appearance? When did we become so callous? When did we start being so hard on ourselves and each other?
I guess if I could do it all over, I would say, “Thank you for reminding me what I lost. I lost sight of my good, tangible and intangible. Thank you for waking me up. Thank you for reminding me that I may never be able to change you, but I can change me. I can change how I honor myself. I can change my health. I can change my outlook, but you young sir, you I can not. I am sorry that in our conversations I, still, was nothing more than “the fat chick.”
Here’s to being the fat chick, who can bounce a quarter of her ass.