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On the flip-side, society is bursting with a lot more ladies who look like me. Strangely, we’re still overlooked.
Women who happen to be theperfectsize look at me and think, “Hmm, she hassucha pretty face. If she lost weight, she’d be dazzling. I should talk to her about this latest diet (pill, exercise, etcetera) thattotallyworks.”
If you’re one of those, know we won’t be friends.
Prettybutchubby (they’re mutually exclusive, yo) women are on every corner. We outnumber the prettyandskinny women (which is so the same thing) like three to one.
I’m five-six and a size sixteen. I sometimes require an eighteen or a twenty if the cut doesn’t account for my boob and ass abundance. That’s my reality and has been since high school.
Before you ask…I’m healthy, oh concerned citizen.
I don’t smoke and keep alcohol to a minimum. Meaning I need a minimum of one glass of wine a day but will occasionally down a whole bottle on a Friday night while binge-watchingHouse of Cards.
Apparently, all us fatties look alike. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard, “Youlook so much likemy sister, aunt, cousin, first grade teacher…”
Think about that for a moment.Creepy, right?
Moving on.
If you see my plus-size face eating aburgeras I race from one meeting to the next or sipping on themilkshakemy assistant grabbed when she picked up the print order, don’t assume that’s all I eat.
I don’t care to discuss my food choices with you so don’t take it as your cue to talk to me about joining a gym or how I need to ditch carbs to control my weight.
Seriously. You don’tknowme.
I eat healthy more often than not but I run my own business and I’m busy as fuck. Unless I’m with my mom, food isn’t my top priority. I’m on deadlines and it’snoneof your business.
Do I make faces at your disgusting kale smoothie or judge when you make thechoiceto go gluten-free? No. I donot.
Stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine.
Besides, my body appears to like things exactly the way they are. My boobs and ass enter and exit rooms separate from the rest of me. They look good, I’m not gonna lie. I can rock a wrap dress better than any skinny girl out there.
I was born with them and could have been Mae West’s body double back in the day if they gave me a blonde wig.
I’m used to them now so try not to stare.
My assistant eats about eight thousand calories a day and thinks McDonald’s is a food group.
Her idea of exercise is doing a fist pump after leveling up inCall of Dutyor having to reach overreally farto grab her cell phone. She’s a twig without trying.
I’m plump, also without trying.
She wishes for my tits and I wish I could wear skinny jeans and not look like an upside-down traffic cone.
The Stones were so right. You can’t always get what you want.
I digress.
Admittedly, I wander off topic sometimes. I’ll try to keep my shit together long enough to tell you how I pretended to be someone I’m not, for someone I dislike (for many more reasons now than at the time of the eyeliner fiasco), on a day that shall go down in infamy.
My mother wished for good Greek daughters.
Between the gossip, the drama, the yelling (the preferred form of communication in our house), and competitiveness, we gave her fits all our lives.
Through it all, we managed to pretend we cared about each other in front of company.
Until the day my sister announced she was getting married.
