year) in a row.
I figured if Tracey had the nerve to squeeze into a leotard and cavort around with a bunch of strangers, maybe I could, too. And even if I did trip all over myself trying to keep up, at least I wouldnât be the only Fat Girl in the room. (Donât tell me youâve never taken comfort in that !)
One problem: what to wear. It wasnât like my closet was full of cute little leotard and tights ensembles and I simply couldnât decide which to put on. Not only did I not own anything of the sort, but I couldnât imagine shoving my body into one. Hell, I could barely fit into everyday street clothes without a struggle. And this was back in the day, before you could go online and order anything you wanted under the radar (XXX videos? XXXL baby tees?) without having to worry about what the lady at the register might be thinking.
No, I would have to do what every Fat Girl absolutely dreads: go shopping.
At least my mother wasnât there. Mom and I had battled over my wardrobe since I was in fifth grade. That was in the early seventies when hip-huggers were hot and I was desperate to have a pair. I was desperate to have a pair because I was desperate to get in good with Susie, the coolest girl in the class, the girl who had already advanced beyond training bras, who sneaked smokes behind school, and who really knew what nasty words like masturbation meant when the boys made jokes about them instead of just playing along, like I did.
Shopping was horrible enough; shopping with Mom was excruciating for both of us. As gently as she could, Mom tried to steer me away from the low-slung crushed velour bell bottoms she knew would make me look as wide as a linebacker. I grabbed a pair and took them into the dressing room anyway, determined to prove her wrongâbut, of course, I couldnât even button them over the folds of my stomach. You know the particular familiar pain. It wasnât just that the pants didnât fitâ I didnât fit. I was never going to be âinâ with Susie. I was never going to be anything more than part of the scenery, a Fat Girl who didnât deserve a spot in the inner circle. I sat in the dressing room for a while, unable to face my momânot that she was the âI told you soâ type, but she didnât need to be. Instead of accepting her support, crying on her shoulder, sharing my shame with her, I held it all in. I felt even more embarrassed knowing that she knew . It was completely lost on me in that momentâand in the many dressing room moments we would share in the futureâthat Mom and I shared the same body type. I know now that she had some of the very same struggles with her weight as I did, particularly when she was young. I donât think, though, that she experienced all the Fat Girl feelings I held inside. If she did, sheâd have known how infuriating it was to see that look of pity in her eyesâinfuriating because there was so much truth in it, truth I didnât want to face.
Thankfully, I would be the only one privy to my humiliation as I tried to find a leotard I could work my butt into without busting the seams. I drove to the discount store one weeknight, arriving just a half hour before closing time. I figured the place would be practically deserted, and the fewer customers who might raise their eyebrows at the chunky girl in the âactivewearâ section, the better.
One quick shuffle through the leotards on the rack was all it took, though, for me to decide not to buy one. I just couldnât face the prospect of trying the things on. It would be too much like swimsuit shopping, and you know how much fun that is. I picked up a package of tights from the sale bin, figuring I could wear them under a raggedy pair of polyester gym shorts from college. An XL T-shirt on top would be just fine; the more coverage, the better. If I could have worn a pup tent, I would have.
As I dressed for that first
I figured if Tracey had the nerve to squeeze into a leotard and cavort around with a bunch of strangers, maybe I could, too. And even if I did trip all over myself trying to keep up, at least I wouldnât be the only Fat Girl in the room. (Donât tell me youâve never taken comfort in that !)
One problem: what to wear. It wasnât like my closet was full of cute little leotard and tights ensembles and I simply couldnât decide which to put on. Not only did I not own anything of the sort, but I couldnât imagine shoving my body into one. Hell, I could barely fit into everyday street clothes without a struggle. And this was back in the day, before you could go online and order anything you wanted under the radar (XXX videos? XXXL baby tees?) without having to worry about what the lady at the register might be thinking.
No, I would have to do what every Fat Girl absolutely dreads: go shopping.
At least my mother wasnât there. Mom and I had battled over my wardrobe since I was in fifth grade. That was in the early seventies when hip-huggers were hot and I was desperate to have a pair. I was desperate to have a pair because I was desperate to get in good with Susie, the coolest girl in the class, the girl who had already advanced beyond training bras, who sneaked smokes behind school, and who really knew what nasty words like masturbation meant when the boys made jokes about them instead of just playing along, like I did.
Shopping was horrible enough; shopping with Mom was excruciating for both of us. As gently as she could, Mom tried to steer me away from the low-slung crushed velour bell bottoms she knew would make me look as wide as a linebacker. I grabbed a pair and took them into the dressing room anyway, determined to prove her wrongâbut, of course, I couldnât even button them over the folds of my stomach. You know the particular familiar pain. It wasnât just that the pants didnât fitâ I didnât fit. I was never going to be âinâ with Susie. I was never going to be anything more than part of the scenery, a Fat Girl who didnât deserve a spot in the inner circle. I sat in the dressing room for a while, unable to face my momânot that she was the âI told you soâ type, but she didnât need to be. Instead of accepting her support, crying on her shoulder, sharing my shame with her, I held it all in. I felt even more embarrassed knowing that she knew . It was completely lost on me in that momentâand in the many dressing room moments we would share in the futureâthat Mom and I shared the same body type. I know now that she had some of the very same struggles with her weight as I did, particularly when she was young. I donât think, though, that she experienced all the Fat Girl feelings I held inside. If she did, sheâd have known how infuriating it was to see that look of pity in her eyesâinfuriating because there was so much truth in it, truth I didnât want to face.
Thankfully, I would be the only one privy to my humiliation as I tried to find a leotard I could work my butt into without busting the seams. I drove to the discount store one weeknight, arriving just a half hour before closing time. I figured the place would be practically deserted, and the fewer customers who might raise their eyebrows at the chunky girl in the âactivewearâ section, the better.
One quick shuffle through the leotards on the rack was all it took, though, for me to decide not to buy one. I just couldnât face the prospect of trying the things on. It would be too much like swimsuit shopping, and you know how much fun that is. I picked up a package of tights from the sale bin, figuring I could wear them under a raggedy pair of polyester gym shorts from college. An XL T-shirt on top would be just fine; the more coverage, the better. If I could have worn a pup tent, I would have.
As I dressed for that first
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