I usually bring my morning coffee with me from home, but yesterday I had to make a stop on the way and so I decided to treat myself to takeout coffee…. I stopped on my way to work at a local chain coffee place. The drive thru line was long, and there was like 1 car in the parking lot, so I parked and walked in.
No line, sweet! I walked up, got the attention of the young woman behind the counter and ordered my “large coffee, cream and 1 splenda”. She rung me up, and I paid and then she handed me my receipt and my coffee. For some reason I glanced down at the receipt - and there clearly written in black and white was “Large Coffee, splenda, skim milk.”
So, I called her back over.
“Excuse me, I ordered my coffee with cream.”
She very pointedly looked me up and down and said “I thought skim milk might be a better choice”
There was then a large pause, as I pushed back at the part of my brain that wanted to explode in fury. Instead I responded: “You don’t get to make that decision for me. Get me your manager please.”
She shrugged and called to the back for someone. At this point another customer had walked in and she moved over to help them.
A middle aged man with a heavy accent came up to the counter and asked if there was a problem. I conveyed what had just happened and he shrugged and said “so I’ll make you another coffee” - which he did.
The moment I got to my office I sent an email to the chain headquarters about the incident. The response I found in my inbox this morning was simply:
“We’re sorry for the inconvenience, please accept the attached coupon for a free coffee.”
Clearly none of the employees of this establishment understand how bigoted and completely beyond unacceptable her behavior was. The size and shape of my body does not give anyone the right to choose what I eat for me. I am a full grown adult who is ENTIRELY capable of knowing what I want to eat, and of making choices about what I should be eating based on my medical conditions (which you can’t possibly know a single thing about by simply looking at me across your counter). OH, and I believe that I clearly communicated what I wanted. You, random person, do NOT know better than I do, and do not have a right to impose your flawed belief system on me. Get the fuck over yourself.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
one of my favorite pieces ever. will always always always reblog.
I have a new top hat, and it makes me feel sassy. Yesterday I wore this very top hat to Wal*Mart, and didn’t care who stared at me. This is a strange feeling. I stopped giving a crap if I stood out, which I used to be like a long time ago. I had pink hair, and red hair, and wore crazy outfits out and about and I never cared if people stared. Maybe that is what I have to do again. I gotta wear what I want without staring at my chub and telling myself it’s bad, because it’s not. I gotta stop being self conscious about my arm because it’s apart of me that I cannot change.
I gotta be me again.
‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.
I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…
I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’
‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’
What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!
I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons."
this is personally in my list of things you must reblog when you see it