Don’t know why, maybe it’s because nine out of ten times they probably are.
The voice is behind me so I don’t bother turning to face them, at least not yet. Keeping my eyes focused on the VIP section, I slow my breathing. They’re probably not even talking about me. I’m being super sensitive, taking something to heart I have no business taking to heart.
“He probably has a fat fetish or something.”
“I thought he’d have higher standards.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I force air out of my body. I don’t remember at what point people's bodies became other people’s problems.
Mikko reappears and hands me my bottle of cider, before I can take a sip he gets that unhinged look on his face. “Want me to say something to them?” He keeps his voice quiet, I doubt the two, or three, bitchy bitches behind me can hear anything over their screeching.
I must have missed him coming back with the drink, from the possessed look in his eyes, he definitely heard what they were—and still are—sayingliterallybehind my back.
“Isn’t she worried about her health?”
“If she lost a bit of weight she’d be so pretty.”
“She has such a nice face.”
Ah, the backhanded compliment part of the evening has commenced.
“No, thank you. I’ve got this.”
It’s nice to be given the opportunity to defend myself instead of someone stepping up to protect me. It’s also nice to know I have back up in case I need shielding from the razor edged tongues of the fat shamers.
When I turn around, there are three women in front of me. As hard as it is for people not to judge me by my weight, it’s oftentimes equally hard for me not to judge them right back. They’re all much smaller than I am, both in height and in body mass. One girl has so much make up on her face that it doesn't match her hands, and I think the fashion police needs to pay them a visit but that’s not my problem.
We don’t lower ourselves to other people’s level just to make them hurt too.
So I force a smile on my face. “You know anti-fat comments aren’t cool, right?” Every molecule in my being wishes grownups were better about handling differences among each other—more like kids are—but with every year that passes I realize that some people are just assholes.
“Think what you want, but be better about choosing what you say out loud.”
The girl with the makeup bristles.
“And stop separating fat from value. I can be fat and beautiful and worthy. One doesn’t take away from the rest.”
From the dazed-and-confused looks on their faces I’m not sure I’m landing my message, but that’s a them problem, not a me problem.
“You know I have feelings, right? Hearing three beautiful women standing behind me and bitch about me because they’re jealous Tate chose me, or they’re unhappy with themselves so they need to hurt someone else, or...” I wave my free hand at them. “Whatever else you might be going through, that hurts my feelings. Stop hurting others to make yourself feel better.”
One of the girls’ mouths hangs open, moving like she’s trying to find something to say.
“I feel a lot better when I don’t criticize my body or other people’s bodies.” Says the same woman who thought about the amount of makeup the stranger put on her face.
The three of them blink at me in silence. Did they hear what I said? Do they even care?
Two of the women shift their weight, and one looks at her feet. Even in the dim light of the bar their cheeks are stained with blushes. Good. They should feel bad for being dickish.
“And one last thing?”
Three heads snap up at the sound of my voice.
“Fat women can be loved without the men who love them having a fetish. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean you get to make it into something sordid. Tate loves me for me, and I love him for him.” Took me a little while to accept it, and I guess I can’t really blame them for jumping to conclusions when one of the first things I asked Tate was if he had a fat fetish and if he was a feeder.
I wave my hand again before taking a sip of my cider. “He’s not even all that.” I smirk. “He stinks soooooo bad.”
Mikko snorts behind me, and a firm hand slides around my waist. Tate leans over to drop a peck on my cheek. “Hey beautiful, you ready to take my stinky self, home?”
