I’m sort of fat. Not obese. Not even really legitimately fat. Just…sort of fat. Doughy. Been that way all my life.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Porter! Come on, really, you just have a poor self-image! You’re being overly critical! You’re holding yourself up to an unachievable ideal! You’re not fat! You’re not!” OK, sure, fine, whatever. You don’t see me in the shower every morning.
See, that’s the thing, I don’t even believe people when they tell me I’m not fat. When someone says to me, “Porter, you’re not fat!” I either think, “OK, they’re being nice.” Or, if I think they sound truly genuine, and I feel in my heart they truly believe I’m not fat, I think, “Oh, well, that’s good, I’ve apparently hid my fatness adequately from this person using deceptive clothing.”
Because yeah, sure, you say I’m not fat? OK, cool. I’ll show up tomorrow morning on your doorstep in spandex and a tanktop. Then you tell me I’m not fat. Not so easy there, is it, Skippy?
Now I’m not huge. When you’re really huge, you’re not hiding anything from anyone. You’re big; everyone can see it. Are you stressed that they find you unattractive? Sure. But are you stressed whether they realize you’re fat? No, man. You’re wearing size 68 jeans. Everybody gets it.
But me, see, I have to be wary at all times. I’m in-the-closet fat.
“Hey, Porter, wanna come to the office get together?”
“Sure, man! I’m there!”
“Cool! It’s on Saturday at Ellen’s place!”
“Awesome, I love Ellen! I’ll be there!”
“She’s got a porch, so we’re gonna barbeque!”
“Oh, sweet, sounds great! I can’t wait to be there!”
“And Dan’s coming, he’s bringing a bunch of records; we’ll have a great time!”
“Kick….effin’…ASS! Dan rocks! I am SO there! I can not wait for this office get-together to start! I am incredibly amped! Nothing will keep me-“
“And it’s a pool party, so bring swim trunks!”
“Yeah, actually, I can’t make it.”
I know what lies beneath the shirts and pants I wear, friends, and it does not need to be seen by the world at large. And it definitely doesn’t need to be showcased at a damn pool party.
Would I rather not be sort of fat? Sure. Would I like to lose a few pounds and get down to a weight where I feel more comfortable? You bet. But will it happen? Probably not. I mean, I’ve wanted to be thinner since I was thirteen, and it hasn’t happened yet. I’ve gone through the teen years fat. Yes, the teen years! The “good ol’ days”! When your metabolism is just supposed to be chuggin’ along like crazy! You always hear, “Yeah, I put on some pounds now, but I was thin as a rail when I was a teenager!” Or, “Yeah, I used to eat four cheeseburgers a day when I was seventeen! Never showed!” For me, it’s, “Yeah, I dieted for two years in high school, but still avoided taking my shirt off in public with leprous fervor!”
So…what? So what? So that’s how it is. I’m sort of fat. This is the hand I’ve been dealt. So I deal with it. It’s no big deal. I’m OK with it. But just stop trying to tell me I’m not fat. I am. I’m not really fat. But I am fat. Sort of fat. Acknowledge it. Stop inviting me to friggin’ pool parties and just acknowledge it.
Or at least complement me on my deceptive clothing.