Shopping for jeans is like getting a mini-heart attack. You pant and sweat and heave and almost collapse from the effort. Your arms begin to spasm as you try desperately to pull them to your waist, without going into a seizure. Your companion(mom/boyfriend/thinner friend) taps politely at the door, hoping that this would be it, that they won't have to dart across the shop to find the dreaded bigger size. And all this time you arch your back, pull your stomach in as rolls of fat hang over the tight button. Then you begin to sweat.
Soaked in perspiration, you emerge out of the trial room, hoping that none of the shop attendants noticed how long you took, and how little you left with. You imagine their pity, their disgust at having wasted so much time. You imagine they're whispering as you walk past entire racks labeled deceptively to attract 'larger' women. You look over longingly at the men's section, where life seems easier. There's no worry about curves, or the lack of them. The girls in skinny jeans stare down at you as you walk with your hands parallel to your thighs, to hide the bulge that shows despite the extra long sweatshirt. The sweat now pricks your neck with the cool of the night. Blinded by tears, you bump into a few happy shoppers who found their sizes. For everything.
Your blood curdles at them, and you want to punch their shiny faces. Draw blood, seek revenge for years of being called 'fat'. You roll the ugly word around your tongue, taste the venom in it. It's ruined your life. It's ruined every chance at happiness. When someone calls you beautiful, you know they're complimenting your brains. When someone calls you hot, you recoil because you think it's indecent for them to play on your insecurity. If your city was a war zone, then the thin are your enemy. And everyone in between is an interloper who might've crossed over battle lines to get emotional ammo against you. And you're always ready for an attack.
You're not genetically blessed, you tell yourself. Your thighs are not your fault, you tell yourself. Those jeans aren't meant for real women, only actresses who get paid to look good. It's not in your job profile, you console yourself. And then a gorgeous woman zips by shattering all your illusions and you hit rock bottom again. Fat is guilt, it's a lovely scoring point for the consistently self-obsessed. Fat is a handicap of epic proportions-- it inhibits your mind. Fat is a fuck buddy because you give in eventually. It's the only thing we can control in all certainty, and yet fail to do. Fat is an ugly scar.
Fat is the buts and the only ifs in your life. Fat is the opposite of action. Fat is fear. It's your demeaning stepmother who hates you. It's the kitchen knife you've contemplated using on your wrists. Fat is not an incident. It's the rest of your life.
