Two Fat Chicks

It's official. I'm fat. There--I freaking said it and there's no turning back now because everyone is going to read this and know.

How do I know I'm fat aside from the obvious tonnage and the near death experience living day-to-day in this mortifying heat? I know I'm fat because a smart-ass teen referred to me and my mom tonight as "...those two fat chicks" as they were walking ahead of us in the parking lot of Kohl's at The Shoppes at BlackStone Valley.

It happened like this. These 3 teenage boys were walking along side of us, but they were kind of hugging the edge of the curb. One of the kids said really loud, "This place is soooo dead tonight. I bet I could walk right down the middle here and not get hit by a car." So as they were passing us, my mom obviously couldn't help over hearing his boastfulness and we all know my mom can never say anything quietly: "Yea, go ahead you big dummy. I'd like to see you get hit."

I kind of snorted because I hate it when kids talk really loudly and then get all bent out of shape if you actually acknowledge their existence and what my mom said was kind of funny. Well, I had it coming because no sooner were they a little bit ahead of us that one of the kids must have told the other kid that were were laughing at them. "Who...those two fat chicks?"

THOSE-TWO-FAT-CHICKS. I let the words sink into me as I was walking with my mom back to our car. Thank God she didn't hear him say that!

Those two fat chicks. Those two fat chicks. Face it. I'm a fat chick.

It's really, really, really hard hearing the truth and it's even harder hearing it from some jerk like that kid in the parking lot. He shouldn't even register on my radar. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know how good of a person I am. He doesn't know that I'm a super great inventory analyst at the number one office supply retailer in the country and I keep his smart little ass in stock of Swingline staplers and jumbo paperclips. He doesn't know the first thing about me except that he knows a fat chick when he sees one.

So what do fat chicks like me do when they're forced to face the facts? Do I hang my head in embarrassment over what I've let myself become or do I do something about it? Well, I think that decision is best left for another day.

Once I got my mom settled into the car, we turned on the radio and treated ourselves to a little Billy Joel song on the oldies station and cracked open a bag of Jelly Belly licorice jelly beans that we had just bought at Target. Afterall, I may be a fat chick--but I'm not a stupid fat chick.

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