Helpful?
It never happens when I'm expecting it to. It's always insidious, a shock, out of the clear blue nowhere. I think that's because I spend so much time doing everything I can to guard against it, so my instincts usually tell me when I'm not safe enough to let my guard down.
You somehow managed to get around that, even though I've been getting not-quite-WYSIWYG vibes from you for some time now. High-school-style whispering in professional meetings never impresses me, but everyone seems to think you're a real peach, so I was willing to at least be friendly.
Hence why I complimented your lunch as I filled my water glass - I heard you tell your friend you cooked it, it smelled great, and I told you so. Just coworkers being friendly. Right?
You lifted a plate of chicken and meatballs from the microwave and responded that you, your friend and others were having a "protein party," and invited me to join you. (Let's ignore that "protein party" sounds a bit vulgar, for a start.) Off my quizzical look, you then proceeded to tell me - apropos of absolutely nothing, because you almost never talk to me anyway - that several of you were having a "Biggest Loser" contest. A weight loss competition, based on percentage of body weight lost in a certain amount of time.
And then you said: "You should join us."
At this point it's only fair to tell you, we're both lucky that I have a superpower, and that this superpower is politeness. It is the number-one weapon in my arsenal; when I feel anxious, threatened, or belittled, I could give any of my fellow Southerners (and quite a few Canadians) a run for their money on Being Polite.
It is my politeness that prevented you from receiving a dressing-down in front of the entire office. It is my politeness that enabled me to hold myself together until I returned to my office and closed the door.
Returning to the point at hand: "You should join us." Followed closely by a smirk that indicated you were, in fact, just baiting me. As you wandered away to your "protein party," you let some idiotic comment about "a healthier company!" float behind you.
My reaction was immediate, visceral. I was too angry to cry, a rare thing indeed. Approached at work by someone who barely knows me. Who is married and has children and should know better. In one instant, I went from a respected, high-performing professional to a fat girl only worthy of backhanded "kindness."
No, I couldn't say what I thought. I couldn't risk letting my thoughts fly; people have been fired for less profane language than the sort that I would have unleashed on you. I would have lost my cool, and that would have cost me too much. But here, I can tell you exactly what you need to know. And now, I can even do it without calling you a fake-ass motherfucker.
(Well, OK, maybe not.)
1. Never say, suggest, mention, or imply to someone you barely know - particularly a coworker, particularly female - that they should lose weight. It's none of your goddamned business that I'm fat, nor is it a surprise to me. I will assume that you are a bigoted asshole. I will further assume, because you are fat as well, that you are a hypocrite.
2. Never assume that anyone who is fat must want to lose weight. Do I? Perhaps - but that's not any of your business either.
3. Pay attention. Pay some fucking attention. I don't participate in diet talk. I don't say how "bad" I am for eating a cookie, or how "good" I am for eating fruit. I don't laugh when people make self-deprecating "jokes" about their weight, because it's not funny; it's either fishing for compliments, or defensive. You never had any reason to think that topic was welcome with me, so there is no excuse.
4. Think past the end of your own nose. Do you just look at people and see them as a size, a color, a way of dressing? Then you're doing it wrong.
No, I'm not ashamed to eat how I please; I do it with manners, and unapologetically. But you can't possibly know if it has anything to do with how much I weigh. I'm also willing to bet that you don't know...
...that I have fibromyalgia and migraines, and while I try to move and stretch, full workouts are out of my reach at the moment. If I got on a treadmill for 30 minutes a day, I'd be in too much pain and too fatigued to do my job. And I can't afford that.
...that I had polycystic ovary syndrome and a fibroid tumor the size of a softball. That I had horrible cycles from 12 to 39, more horrible than you could possibly want to know. That I had to spend two weeks recovering from every period, just in time to get PMS again. That I bled so heavily I was anemic. That between the hormones and the inability to keep an exercise regimen due to unreal pain and fatigue, I slowly gained until I was the size you see now.
...that I had three major surgeries in 16 months' time, the last one taking my uterus, ovaries, and tubes. That I discovered that PCOS and fibroids were just the tip of the iceberg, and I could only be grateful none of it was cancer. That before that, I fought for years to have my own child and never could, and now I never will. That all the things they found were a CAUSE of my weight, not an effect - medically documented.
...that I have depression. Anxiety. Severe after-effects from long-term emotional abuse by my father and stepmother, mostly centering around food. Being put on my first diet at the age of 9 - right as I entered puberty. Being forbidden from eating without permission, monitored by every bite, yelled at for gaining even a pound. Begging my mother not to make me visit. Sneaking food into my suitcase as I got older. Deciding that no one - NO ONE - will tell me what, when, or how much to eat ever again.
You didn't know all this. But you also didn't care; you didn't "mean well." You wanted to embarrass me and saw an opening; you didn't even wait until no one was around to do it. When I was younger, it would have broken me, cracked me, pierced me.
Did it register this time? Sure it did...but that's something else you don't know, and you never will. Because I know myself. I know what I've been through, and I try every day to be kind to myself as well as realistic. I have problems - but I'm a grown woman with a beautiful life. You don't know that, either. You wanted to make me feel small and huge all at once.
You didn't. I went back to my great job. Talked to my fabulous best friend, my wonderful mother, my amazing husband. Had a tasty lunch and an awesome dinner. And remembered who I am.
So thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I don't need your help. I have my own.
You somehow managed to get around that, even though I've been getting not-quite-WYSIWYG vibes from you for some time now. High-school-style whispering in professional meetings never impresses me, but everyone seems to think you're a real peach, so I was willing to at least be friendly.
Hence why I complimented your lunch as I filled my water glass - I heard you tell your friend you cooked it, it smelled great, and I told you so. Just coworkers being friendly. Right?
You lifted a plate of chicken and meatballs from the microwave and responded that you, your friend and others were having a "protein party," and invited me to join you. (Let's ignore that "protein party" sounds a bit vulgar, for a start.) Off my quizzical look, you then proceeded to tell me - apropos of absolutely nothing, because you almost never talk to me anyway - that several of you were having a "Biggest Loser" contest. A weight loss competition, based on percentage of body weight lost in a certain amount of time.
And then you said: "You should join us."
At this point it's only fair to tell you, we're both lucky that I have a superpower, and that this superpower is politeness. It is the number-one weapon in my arsenal; when I feel anxious, threatened, or belittled, I could give any of my fellow Southerners (and quite a few Canadians) a run for their money on Being Polite.
It is my politeness that prevented you from receiving a dressing-down in front of the entire office. It is my politeness that enabled me to hold myself together until I returned to my office and closed the door.
Returning to the point at hand: "You should join us." Followed closely by a smirk that indicated you were, in fact, just baiting me. As you wandered away to your "protein party," you let some idiotic comment about "a healthier company!" float behind you.
My reaction was immediate, visceral. I was too angry to cry, a rare thing indeed. Approached at work by someone who barely knows me. Who is married and has children and should know better. In one instant, I went from a respected, high-performing professional to a fat girl only worthy of backhanded "kindness."
No, I couldn't say what I thought. I couldn't risk letting my thoughts fly; people have been fired for less profane language than the sort that I would have unleashed on you. I would have lost my cool, and that would have cost me too much. But here, I can tell you exactly what you need to know. And now, I can even do it without calling you a fake-ass motherfucker.
(Well, OK, maybe not.)
1. Never say, suggest, mention, or imply to someone you barely know - particularly a coworker, particularly female - that they should lose weight. It's none of your goddamned business that I'm fat, nor is it a surprise to me. I will assume that you are a bigoted asshole. I will further assume, because you are fat as well, that you are a hypocrite.
2. Never assume that anyone who is fat must want to lose weight. Do I? Perhaps - but that's not any of your business either.
3. Pay attention. Pay some fucking attention. I don't participate in diet talk. I don't say how "bad" I am for eating a cookie, or how "good" I am for eating fruit. I don't laugh when people make self-deprecating "jokes" about their weight, because it's not funny; it's either fishing for compliments, or defensive. You never had any reason to think that topic was welcome with me, so there is no excuse.
4. Think past the end of your own nose. Do you just look at people and see them as a size, a color, a way of dressing? Then you're doing it wrong.
No, I'm not ashamed to eat how I please; I do it with manners, and unapologetically. But you can't possibly know if it has anything to do with how much I weigh. I'm also willing to bet that you don't know...
...that I have fibromyalgia and migraines, and while I try to move and stretch, full workouts are out of my reach at the moment. If I got on a treadmill for 30 minutes a day, I'd be in too much pain and too fatigued to do my job. And I can't afford that.
...that I had polycystic ovary syndrome and a fibroid tumor the size of a softball. That I had horrible cycles from 12 to 39, more horrible than you could possibly want to know. That I had to spend two weeks recovering from every period, just in time to get PMS again. That I bled so heavily I was anemic. That between the hormones and the inability to keep an exercise regimen due to unreal pain and fatigue, I slowly gained until I was the size you see now.
...that I had three major surgeries in 16 months' time, the last one taking my uterus, ovaries, and tubes. That I discovered that PCOS and fibroids were just the tip of the iceberg, and I could only be grateful none of it was cancer. That before that, I fought for years to have my own child and never could, and now I never will. That all the things they found were a CAUSE of my weight, not an effect - medically documented.
...that I have depression. Anxiety. Severe after-effects from long-term emotional abuse by my father and stepmother, mostly centering around food. Being put on my first diet at the age of 9 - right as I entered puberty. Being forbidden from eating without permission, monitored by every bite, yelled at for gaining even a pound. Begging my mother not to make me visit. Sneaking food into my suitcase as I got older. Deciding that no one - NO ONE - will tell me what, when, or how much to eat ever again.
You didn't know all this. But you also didn't care; you didn't "mean well." You wanted to embarrass me and saw an opening; you didn't even wait until no one was around to do it. When I was younger, it would have broken me, cracked me, pierced me.
Did it register this time? Sure it did...but that's something else you don't know, and you never will. Because I know myself. I know what I've been through, and I try every day to be kind to myself as well as realistic. I have problems - but I'm a grown woman with a beautiful life. You don't know that, either. You wanted to make me feel small and huge all at once.
You didn't. I went back to my great job. Talked to my fabulous best friend, my wonderful mother, my amazing husband. Had a tasty lunch and an awesome dinner. And remembered who I am.
So thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I don't need your help. I have my own.