.File this one under "Rants and Raves."
...they're at it again. The women, I mean. They've grown tired of my snack eating, food-loving, non-weight gaining, happy in my skin. So now they do what they always do: talk about me, but not to.
It should come as no surprise to me really; I've been here before with alarmingly common rotation. My mom promised me in grade 10 that one day it would be over; so did the school counselors; so did the adults -- that high school and it's asinine cruelties would, eventually, stop.
Sadly, what I've found is just the opposite. Women will be cruel as long as they can be; they will mock as long as it suits them (as long as they don't like themselves), and in me they'll find a delightful loophole: it's politically correct to belittle thin women. So the words continue, the passive aggressive behavior continues, the ungrounded, unfounded exclusion continues; and the onlookers are silent.
Normally I smile pretty and say nothing and sit in the knowledge of what they haven't quite figured out yet: that I'm on to them; that I know it is out of their own desperate unhappiness with the mirror that they choose to pick on me (I and my weight are a litmus test for fledgling self esteems).
But this time, I'm reacting. I can't sit under cruel scrutinizing eyes anymore without bringing something to the table. As a sure sign of the mature adulthood I've long-since entered into: bring on all my form fitting skirts, the high heels that make my legs look longer, the shirts that show my tiny waist. Bring on extra snacks and extra snack crunching at my desk and my body's refusal to change shape.
"Like water off a duck's back" sounds good, and once adopted as a lifestyle, sort of works. But after a lifetime of being the lone oil-covered duck in a pond filled with haters, I've run out of the desire to make sure these women feel good about themselves while they pick me apart.
Duck, imploding (but damn, does she look good).