Being fat isn’t just a source of shame. It’s also a source of health issues. While historically a woman with a bit of meat on her bones was viewed as healthy and therefore fertile, nowadays, excess meat on those bones can mean poor health and infertility. Yup, as good as that pizza looks, it’s the Grim Reaper that’s the delivery boy.
Is there room enough in the world for fat people? If calculations are correct, physically, there is. Not counting Antarctica, the population density of the planet is 115 persons per square kilometer. Some say the earth’s population can fit into one city; others claim we can all fit into the state of Texas (but Texans are known for their absurd claims on size, so I’ll have to get back with you on that one).
Mirrors: I used to hate them. Mirrors reveal what you don’t want to see, and when you’re significantly overweight, there’s a lot you don’t want to see.
At home, there are mirrors in the bath, bedroom and hallway to remind you how you look. It’s your own personal carnival fun house, which isn’t fun at all. And these mirrors aren’t distorted, making you look stretched or squatty or bulbous. No, they provide a perfect reflection which is perfectly awful.
Everything at Café Crave is just a little wrong since the new manager took over. It used to be a quaint, comfortable hangout for Sands, Riyaan, sometimes Cat and me to meet up for our weekly therapy debriefs.
The new manager is turning it into one of those up-scale a la carte cafés where yuppies are seen sporting designer label clothes and latest Gucci handbags. The walls are now covered with original artwork from local artists, hung crookedly at different angles each time we come in, as though someone keeps trying to get it right but is unable to do it. It’s hardly a place where a fat lady and her eclectic group of friends, including her very own stinky homeless friend, are welcome.
Riyaan, world’s best gay friend and coffee barrister extraordinaire, catches my eye as the door shuts behind me. “Large mocacchino?” he calls across the counter.
“Make it a double,” I reply and approach the booth where Sands sits. Why can’t she remember to get a table?
Booths convey a sense of privacy and intimacy while making it difficult to slide in and out of them, not to mention the table cuts into one’s gut.
Another annoying change to the café is the tables are too close. The place is never more than a third full, yet they squeeze in the tables as if anticipating of throngs of caffeine addicts. As a large woman, I am unable to walk through this minefield without bumping into something. I only ever go there when I have no choice and this was one of those times. The gang hasn’t met in weeks and Riyaan insisted on meeting here as he was on a break.
“Excuse me, so sorry” I mumble as I bump the arm of a patron and cause her coffee to slosh across her hand. I hope it doesn’t scald her. Another patron, chatting loudly on his call phone, grabs his purchase at the cash register and walks toward to the door, except I am blocking his path. He stops short gives me an obvious “Ew” look, then backtracks and takes the long way around the minefield. He lowers his voice and snickers something.
I’m almost to the booth. In my haste to get there, I turn sideways to squeeze between a chair where sits a man with a laptop and a table where a couple, oblivious to the world, makes googly eyes at each other. “Sorry,” I say as my stomach knocks the man’s head and arm forward. His hand hits a key and the laptop screen goes blank.
“Shit” he mutters. So much for hoping whatever it is is backed up or not important.
Meanwhile, my butt pushes the table behind me backward. “Hey!” the female hisses. I glance over my shoulder and see coffee spilling over the table.
“I do apologize,” I offer and duck my head in embarrassment. I’d get out of there but my friends were waiting.