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Being Fat

I’ll get down to it. I’m fat. I weigh 240 pounds and wear a size 18. There’s no way around it. I’m fat. I’m not lazy. I don’t gorge myself on junk food and candy. I eat three meals a day and have snacks on occasion. Sometimes, I drink soda. But I’m fat. And it’s no picnic. There’s a lot of pressure for women to be thin. Every newsstand holds magazines that show women photoshopped into oblivion to appease some contrived notion of beauty. Even Faith Hill needed 11 points of alteration. It’s so pervasive that some European countries have forced magazines to apply a health label similar to those found on cigarette cases. Many models are anorexic because of this conceived notion and so are a plethora of women.

But things change when you’re fat. And I don’t mean "OMG! I have to wear a size 12!" I mean going to Lane Bryant and not Forever 21. I mean shopping in the plus size section of every clothing store imaginable searching for the one pair of jean that’s your size because you don’t want to deal with the fact that a regular 18 doesn’t fit anymore. The level of self-consciousness that derives of being overweight oppresses every aspect of my day. From what I eat in front of other people, to how I eat, to what I wear and how I carry myself. Out in public, I put up a front. ...

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