Skinny Bitches

“No, you’re definitely a 14”.

The words no woman wants to hear.

The J Crew associate who was measuring me for a bridesmaid dress was the size of my thigh. A snarky size 4 who probably gets her rocks off by splurging at Body Jewellry (the classy kiosk outside J Crew that sells bellybutton rings and other bedazzled trash) and picking up “shorts” at Hollister that show off the majority of her ass cheeks. She even tried to console me after my jaw dropped, telling me that their sizes are sometimes tough for “healthy” girls like myself. At this point, I feel like she is asking to be punched.

I haven’t been a size 14 since college, and this woman must be wrong. A 14, really? Have I been drinking that many microbrews and indulging on a few too many summer cocktails? Bullshit. Nevertheless, I begrudgingly place my order in store for a 12 and a 14 after much argument with Staci. That isn’t her name. But it should have been.

My dresses arrive, and the 14 is falling off. Even the 12 is a little loose, and I almost sprint to suburbia in excitement that I am only a little bit away from single digit sizes.

When I walk into J Crew, all I want to do is rip Staci a new one, but she is out that day. The rotund manager happily takes back both dresses and orders me a 10, while her sales associate ,who is gayer than Christmas, comes running up asking, “Oh my God!! Are you getting married?” He is more excited than I anticipate my mother would be in asking this question.

I respond, “Fuck no.” My shaved head and haphazard fitness apparel leaves the impression that even if I did marry a man, I wouldn’t waste my time with conventional hetero-normative bullshit. That, however, could not be farther from the truth. I just would never get married when someone thinks I look like a size 14.

Maybe instead of yelling at Staci the next time I pick up a school boy blazer or a pair of chinos, I should swing by the food court and pick her up a super-sized Wendy’s combo with a Diet Coke. If you are naturally thin, I’m sorry. I’m probably going to hate you for a minute. But if you are gracious and pleasant, and keep the topic away from weight, I may just like you. To my skinny bitches, never call another woman “healthy”, or “athletic”, or my personal favorite, “thick”. Because this athletic woman will punch you in the neck. To Staci: eat a sandwich, Posh Beckham, and leave my dress size out of it.

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