I'm tired of using cuts
It didn’t
take me long to figure out that I was chubbier than my little sister. Chubbier than my older brother. What I couldn’t figure out was why I was chubbier. I thought I ate what they ate. I thought I did what they did. However, for some reason, I was always bigger
than they were. I never had a little kid
metabolism - even when I was a little kid.
Maybe, with the right amount of stroking from my mom, I never would have figured out that being chubby wasn’t exactly a desirable trait. Maybe, I would’ve remained blissfully unaware of my hideousness until I was school-age.
But then my Uncle Archie decided to fuck all of that up and refer to me as “The Little Butterball”.
I remember feeling dirty. Feeling ashamed. Every time I would go swimming with the other kids at my grandmother’s house I would think about what my stomach looked like in a two-piece. This isn’t something most five years old deal with.
Or is it? I wonder sometimes how normal it is for children to have weight issues their entire lives. Or not just weight issues, but SELF IMAGE issues. I wonder how many people felt disgusting because of their big nose or their gap teeth before they could print their name.
When I did get into school, it only got worse.
Probably my clearest memory of feeling unattractive was in fourth grade when Kristen Breaux started calling me by my last name instead of my first. I don’t know why she did it. All I remember was how it made me feel - ugly, masculine, different.
Kristen was skinny. And when I say skinny, I mean that my wrists were as big around as her legs. I don’t know if she was happy with the way she looked. I know I wasn’t. I don’t think many girls are.
I tried to be Kristen’s friend. I don’t know why, but I did. I called her and invited her to a Halloween party. She said she had to ask her mother. Her mother got on the phone and told me that Kristen had to study. We were nine. I was smart enough to figure out Kristen didn’t want to go anywhere with me.
One day, as we were walking down the stairs to go to recess, Kristen turned and looked at me. And when I say she looked at me, I mean she really looked at me. She let her eyes run all the way over me.
“How did you get so fat, Coll?” she asked me.
I remember the tears welling up in my eyes. I’d like to think it doesn’t hurt anymore but I know it does - because I feel the same way now that I did then. Then, I didn’t say anything back to her. Now, I still don’t know what I would’ve said.
She laughed when she saw that I was about to start boo-hooing, “I’m just kidding,” she said.
I didn’t try to be friends with Kristen anymore. But I didn’t stop thinking that. Didn’t stop feeling that. Not only was I fat, but I was so fat that someone couldn’t IMAGINE how I had got that way.
Boys asked Kristen to be their girlfriend. Boys sent me Valentines that said “You are my friend”.
Honestly though, I don’t think the problem was that I was chubby. (Tiffany Tusa was way chubbier than me and she still got asked out). The problem was how I felt about myself. My problem was that I saw myself as unattractive, and so that’s what I projected and that’s how other people saw me.
As I write this, I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself… or to make anyone else feel sorry for me. I’m not. Really. I just wonder sometimes who puts those ideas in little girls’ heads. Who inspires them to cut and to tear at each other? What are my odds of winning a lawsuit against Mattel for creating Barbie dolls?
Seriously.
I think later in fourth grade, I started losing some of my “baby fat”. In fifth grade, I was a lot closer to “acceptable”. But then, (oh how clearly I recall) I had the worst hair on the planet. I’m not kidding.
Erica Heaton (who later apologized to me and said she actually liked my hair and thus cannot be held accountable) told me that she had a dream in which my hair ate a city.
I wish I was making this up.
Even if Erica never would’ve taken it back, I really wouldn’t blame her. My hair was awful. I looked like a blonde Chia pet (insult can be attributed to Ben Just, 7th grade). It wasn’t until I started letting my hair be curly (10th grade?) that it stopped looking disgusting.
But… I guess my real point here is… why did it matter so much? Why did other kids feel it necessary to make fun of my chubbiness or my sucky hair or the fact that my mom bought my uniform in the wrong shade of gray to save four dollars? And yes, it was a big deal, and yes, people pointed it out to be CONSTANTLY.
Even though now, some days, I look in the mirror and like what I see, my self image STILL matters too much - to me and to other people. There’s still that nine year old girl down there. That girl who had her self esteem trashed by someone she wanted to be like.
And I think that everyone - boys and girls, men and women - feel unhappy with how they look sometimes. It doesn’t matter how many times we hear “Oh, not even Jessica Simpson is that gorgeous! She’s airbrushed! Even Brad Pitt insisted on having a leg double for Troy! No one is perfect looking!”
I guess I shouldn't speak for other people, but I know that for me, none of that stuff even registers because it seems like everyday I see a real live Jessica smiling vacantly at me. And I don’t hate her. What I hate… what I hate more than anything is how I want her to know what it’s like not to be perfect looking. And maybe she does know. Maybe… what I really hate… is me for judging her.
Maybe, with the right amount of stroking from my mom, I never would have figured out that being chubby wasn’t exactly a desirable trait. Maybe, I would’ve remained blissfully unaware of my hideousness until I was school-age.
But then my Uncle Archie decided to fuck all of that up and refer to me as “The Little Butterball”.
I remember feeling dirty. Feeling ashamed. Every time I would go swimming with the other kids at my grandmother’s house I would think about what my stomach looked like in a two-piece. This isn’t something most five years old deal with.
Or is it? I wonder sometimes how normal it is for children to have weight issues their entire lives. Or not just weight issues, but SELF IMAGE issues. I wonder how many people felt disgusting because of their big nose or their gap teeth before they could print their name.
When I did get into school, it only got worse.
Probably my clearest memory of feeling unattractive was in fourth grade when Kristen Breaux started calling me by my last name instead of my first. I don’t know why she did it. All I remember was how it made me feel - ugly, masculine, different.
Kristen was skinny. And when I say skinny, I mean that my wrists were as big around as her legs. I don’t know if she was happy with the way she looked. I know I wasn’t. I don’t think many girls are.
I tried to be Kristen’s friend. I don’t know why, but I did. I called her and invited her to a Halloween party. She said she had to ask her mother. Her mother got on the phone and told me that Kristen had to study. We were nine. I was smart enough to figure out Kristen didn’t want to go anywhere with me.
One day, as we were walking down the stairs to go to recess, Kristen turned and looked at me. And when I say she looked at me, I mean she really looked at me. She let her eyes run all the way over me.
“How did you get so fat, Coll?” she asked me.
I remember the tears welling up in my eyes. I’d like to think it doesn’t hurt anymore but I know it does - because I feel the same way now that I did then. Then, I didn’t say anything back to her. Now, I still don’t know what I would’ve said.
She laughed when she saw that I was about to start boo-hooing, “I’m just kidding,” she said.
I didn’t try to be friends with Kristen anymore. But I didn’t stop thinking that. Didn’t stop feeling that. Not only was I fat, but I was so fat that someone couldn’t IMAGINE how I had got that way.
Boys asked Kristen to be their girlfriend. Boys sent me Valentines that said “You are my friend”.
Honestly though, I don’t think the problem was that I was chubby. (Tiffany Tusa was way chubbier than me and she still got asked out). The problem was how I felt about myself. My problem was that I saw myself as unattractive, and so that’s what I projected and that’s how other people saw me.
As I write this, I’m not trying to feel sorry for myself… or to make anyone else feel sorry for me. I’m not. Really. I just wonder sometimes who puts those ideas in little girls’ heads. Who inspires them to cut and to tear at each other? What are my odds of winning a lawsuit against Mattel for creating Barbie dolls?
Seriously.
I think later in fourth grade, I started losing some of my “baby fat”. In fifth grade, I was a lot closer to “acceptable”. But then, (oh how clearly I recall) I had the worst hair on the planet. I’m not kidding.
Erica Heaton (who later apologized to me and said she actually liked my hair and thus cannot be held accountable) told me that she had a dream in which my hair ate a city.
I wish I was making this up.
Even if Erica never would’ve taken it back, I really wouldn’t blame her. My hair was awful. I looked like a blonde Chia pet (insult can be attributed to Ben Just, 7th grade). It wasn’t until I started letting my hair be curly (10th grade?) that it stopped looking disgusting.
But… I guess my real point here is… why did it matter so much? Why did other kids feel it necessary to make fun of my chubbiness or my sucky hair or the fact that my mom bought my uniform in the wrong shade of gray to save four dollars? And yes, it was a big deal, and yes, people pointed it out to be CONSTANTLY.
Even though now, some days, I look in the mirror and like what I see, my self image STILL matters too much - to me and to other people. There’s still that nine year old girl down there. That girl who had her self esteem trashed by someone she wanted to be like.
And I think that everyone - boys and girls, men and women - feel unhappy with how they look sometimes. It doesn’t matter how many times we hear “Oh, not even Jessica Simpson is that gorgeous! She’s airbrushed! Even Brad Pitt insisted on having a leg double for Troy! No one is perfect looking!”
I guess I shouldn't speak for other people, but I know that for me, none of that stuff even registers because it seems like everyday I see a real live Jessica smiling vacantly at me. And I don’t hate her. What I hate… what I hate more than anything is how I want her to know what it’s like not to be perfect looking. And maybe she does know. Maybe… what I really hate… is me for judging her.