Childhood FatnessSubmitted by Ducky at 2008-08-12 21:28:46 EDT
Rating: 1.67 on 58 ratings (58 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
As a child, I used to be the class fattie…not just overweight, but REALLY fat. I’d be what Kaiser Soze would refer to as “orca fat”. Most of us will remember that every school has its funny fat person – the popular fat person whose humour and goodwill keeps them safe from fatness scorn. I was not this person. My fatness, coupled with shyness (not just shyness, but painful shyness – like bladder infection painful), led to a significant lack of friends.
I was new in town and looked forward to peddling home on my banana seat bike so that I could watch the 3pm showings of Teddy Ruxpin and Inspector Gadget – eat a bag of carrots with an entire jar of ranch dressing, and generally feel sorry for myself. On Fridays I was allowed to stay up for an extra hour which gave me a chance to play a game of Sorry with my dad and then-pregnant mum, watch MacGuyver, and go to sleep. I attribute being a loner as a child to my mother being my best friend to this day.
The only interaction I got with other people would be ill-willed, with fellow classmates making fun of my husk, ripping the tails off of my popples, and being general assholes. I spent a lot of time with rivers of tears and snot running down my face – I would promptly wipe this on my sleeve, which had predictably turned black over time and begun to smell.
One Friday afternoon my cousin was over to play. She had/has darker skin than me, which at the age of 6 perplexed us both a bit.
“Maybe it’s dirt” she suggested.
“Ew…you sure are dirty then” I said.
“I take a bath every day! Mum makes me! I am NOT dirty”.
“Well maybe you need to scrub harder”.
After 10 minutes of scrubbing, my cousin was sulking and had turned a slight shade of pink, but the ‘dirt’ was not coming off. I told her how disgusting I thought it was that she’d let things get this bad.
Not long afterward my aunt came to pick her up, and with subsequent begging and pleading, we were granted a sleepover at her place. I remember that evening being very fun. They lived on a farm, had a kitchen with nearly 100 different cupboards, and she and I stayed up for most of the night playing Link.
The next morning my aunt decided that my cousin needed a haircut. I watched as she energetically snipped and cut at my cousins hair, and the end result was fantastic! She looked so cute!
I wanted one.
Flashforward 20 minutes and my jiggly little body was locked in the bathroom convulsing with tears. I looked like a fat little boy who had been through a few rounds of chemo. My hair was cut to the scalp in some areas, and tufted out in others. It was horrific and I immediately wished for death. On Sunday evening I grabbed my dads medical dictionary off of the bookshelf, and Monday morning I faked every illness I thought I’d be able to pronounce, including but not limited to the flu, chicken pox, whooping cough, and coma. I did NOT want to go to school.
“But I DO HAVE COMA!!!”
So on the way to school, I wore a hat. This is fine until you actually get into the school, where policy did not allow them. I wore it until it was forcefully removed by the teacher. I sat there, uncomfortably, while the other kids stared and whispered. It was my arch nemesis who spoke first.
“What’s with your hair?” he sneered.
“Nothing. My aunt cut it. Why?” I said quietly and curtly.
“Because you look like a fag”.
“What’s a fag?”
“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A FAG IS? THEN YOU DEFINITELY ARE ONE. Fag.”
6 year olds can be so cruel. Despite that now it is patently obvious that he didn’t know what the word meant either, or alluded to, at the time I was quite upset. Being a total dork, I decided that I would have to look it up. The definition read something along the lines of a bundle of sticks or a cigarette.
What a LAME insult.
Things got decidedly better after grade 2…but my first memories of school were definitely less than stellar.