So I can sit here full of rage. Or I can put the fire out. The last time I was fat was at the Cuervo (beach volleyball) in 1991 in Boulder with Kep and assorted hot girls. I had tweed, multi-colored board shorts with a thread unraveling to my left knee. It’s funny what you remember.
A voice from the pretty crowd said, “Sit down, fat ass.” Quiet calls for calm and respect mocked in four syllables. Da da da DUH. And I was embarrassed. I pretended I saw who said it. I feigned anger. I felt shame.
Two months of steeped fear later. I lost all the weight. Then I lost more. And I was pretty like you’re supposed to be. Happy is a long-term find. It doesn’t just land in your hand because you did what you were supposed to. It’s a ghost whispering at sunset, fleeting. It is a smile clenched. It is never again and probably never was. It wins six nights in a row on Jeopardy. Hollow.
Yes, you understand pain. But it’s different. You were born beautiful. You hurt because people don’t act like you expect. I hurt because they are what they are.