Hey there fatsos,
How’re we doing tonight? I’m going to share some itty bitty information with you because it’s just impossible for me to store it in my head and I need to vent.
I know a girl, let’s call her Mia.
So, Mia. She woke up one morning not to the rays of sunlight, but to the face of her mother bickering at her ill lifestyle. Sounds to us like a ‘been there done that’ kind of a situation, doesn’t it? It does to me because that roughly describes every morning of my twenty years of life so far, except that instead of my mom it’s my dad who wakes me up. But, this isn’t about me. This is about her.
She was still in bed when she realized it was a Saturday. Saturday used to be the ‘shopping day’ for her family and it, how do I put this delicately, sucked balls. (Trust me, that is delicate)
Mia loved shopping. However, since a couple of years or to be precise, since she got fat, she hadn’t shopped much. She didn’t just dislike it. She loathed it. Saturday was not the day to wait for anymore.
So, whenever the day arrived and the men of the family tied their laces and the women strapped on a pair to go get the bills exchanged for some new cool stuff, Mia always malingered or feigned some errands to run. That one time, though, there was no way out for her. She needed clothes. I repeat, needed. Expelling an “ Ah, What the hell! Just this one time. How bad can it be!” from her fat pair of lips, she went. To shop.
Out there in the market she could not find anything that fit her. Girls like us: Mia, you and I: we have special stores for us where we can walk in exactly how a slender, sleek and confident girl sashays inside a normal store, picks up a pair of denims with the minimum waist length, hand out the money and exits with the same air, attitude and prettiness about her as she had entered with. Granted, of course, the lofty stone of embarrassment and shame; enthroning our hearts like a glum paper-weight.
Mia entered the store and heard her mother hiss curtly as she did. She would try on a few clothes and then show her mother who would inspect her, grunt at her fat body, reject them outright and hand her another ones. When her elder sister handed her a short skirt, she hesitated, because she hadn’t worn any since she discovered her body peeking out of short clothes making her look like a disgusting fat clown. Her sister insisted her anyway. She tried it on. As she came out, there was a chorus of boisterous, mocking jeers and laughter. And if that was not enough, her mother looked at the sales people and said, still laughing, “Look at how she looks. Dresses don’t fit her even here in a store made for fat people.”
She stood there- a stoned fat body clad in an undersized dress, subjected to such an unkind travesty. And by who? People who loved her? People she loved? She shut the door at their faces, sulked down to the floor, tears traversing down her face like tributaries of a river, realizing that she had been ridiculed and reduced to the extent of a fat hole in the universe by the people she refers to as her family.
That Fat Girl