Don’t Assume I Hate My Plus Size Body, please and thank you.
Something happened last weekend that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
I’m thick and curvy with a big butt and a Rack. Capital R, Rack.
I went bridesmaid dress shopping last Saturday. My fellow wedding party peeps are thinner than me, between size 2-6. I had been secretly dreading the shopping date because I knew I would have to try on sample dress sizes that couldn’t move past my posterior. When you’re surrounded by people who seem to (or you assume would) move through life (or rather, shopping) with such ease and effortlessness, it’s disheartening.
So, in advance, I accepted this fact; that most likely nothing would fit me and kept repeating a mantra inside my head: ‘It’s just a sample size, you look great in jeans…’
Standing the closet size change room, I zip up the back and get stuck halfway. It’s not a keyhole cut out in the back, it’s my flabby rolls that prevent it from going any further.
We all choose dress styles, I’m pleased with my choice though I wonder if the exclaims of ‘you look good’ are more to make me feel included than they are truth.
Now it’s time to get our measurements taken so we can find the right size. I’m last in line. I’m wearing a loose, thick knit sweater so the woman with bad skin who is fitting me asks if I don’t mind stepping back inside the closet fitting room to take off my sweater for a better fitting. I don’t mind. She pulls the door, leaving it ajar.
I wonder what sales lady thinks of my ample bosom and round Winnie the Pooh belly.
She wraps the tape measure around my chest and calls out a number to the sales lady taking down the measurements with a clipboard.
She faces me and,’oh!’.
She has the expression of someone who just knocked over the salt at the dinner table. A faux pas that incites a knee jerk, ‘oops!’ reaction.
‘Sorry.’, she says.
Sorry. She said sorry. She said sorry because she yelled out my measurement at the same volume that she did when fitting a size two. She said sorry because I, being large, or rather extra large, would feel embarrassed by my friends knowing what size I am. She said sorry because fat = ashamed.
‘That’s okay.’ I say back truthfully, ‘I don’t care.’
She takes the next measurements, quietly passing on my hip size like a secret.
As we leave, I start stewing with resentment.
The confusing anger that this incident brought on sits with me over the next week or two, like the time I ate five slices of deep dish, thick crust pizza in a row.
Fuck you, fitting lady. Do not assume I feel bad about how I look. I don’t and I don’t think I should. Do not assume my friends would feel bad for me. Because they don’t.
I don’t feel bad about my size. And I don’t need to be made to feel bad. If I don’t feel bad about how I look, then why would my friends?
If you, fitting lady, feel bad about how I look, then feel free to think it but keep it to yourself.