I’m putting something out there. I don’t want to call it a warning, per say, but I’d advise that it be followed nonetheless.
Do not. Call me. A skinny bitch.
Unless, of course, you want me to start acting like one.
Lately, I’ve been getting called a skinny bitch. Lately, I’m not allowed to talk about food, offer food to people, mention that I’m going to get food. I’m not allowed to say that I weighed a lot after my freshman year because the dining hall food was so gross I ate nothing but cheese steaks all year. I’m not allowed to say I put on pounds after turning 21 because of the, uh, adult beverages I’d started to enjoy nor can I mention that I finally lost the beer weight after graduation.
And do you want to hear something? I’m over it.
I’m sorry that I’m Italian and that my whole family is teeny tiny and we just happen to have really great genes. I’m sorry I don’t pound 6 packs every night after work or eat fast food for every meal. I’m sorry that I don’t drink the equivalent of a 2-liter of Diet Coke every day.
I’m sorry that I never had to join Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem.
I’m sorry that I like salads and that I’m not big on breakfast so sometimes I only eat 2 meals a day, and one of them is made entirely of things found in gardens.
I’m sorry that sometimes for lunch you see me eating things like this:
Yeah. That’s a 6-pack of bread sticks and a piece of black tie mousse cake from Olive Garden. And yeah, I ate the cake first. (And yeah, I was so craving chocolate that day that I didn’t remember until I was halfway through the cake that I wanted to take a picture of it just so I could make this point!)
But do you know what you didn’t see? You didn’t see me save the bread sticks for dinner. You didn’t see that I ate only 3 of them with some hummus.
You didn’t know that I used to work at Elle, where even a size 6 was at risk of being called fat. That the stress of moving to the city and trying to get a job and then working someplace where I was literally running every day resulted in me dropping to a size zero and still feeling chubby some days because I wasn’t a negative zero and slinking around in heels and tights and mini dresses with cinched waists that showed off my fabulous figure caused by eating only 1 bowl of steamed broccoli a day. But where, at the same time, people who were under 5’2″ were allowed to be a normal weight for their height.
Which, in case you are wondering, is what I am. So I’m sorry that I’m short and therefore skinny. But I am NOT a bitch. I don’t brag about my weight. I eat like horse most of the time in the attempt to put a few pounds on so I can stop shopping at Delia’s. I love pizza and ice cream (lactose intolerance be DAMNED). I put bacon, cheese or ranch dressing on everything I can. I make pasta AT LEAST once a week.
And you, pointing out that I’m skinny, is the same thing as me pointing out that you are less so. And I would never do that. Because weight is always, male or female, old or young, a touchy subject. Kind of like age. And I don’t need you to remind me that once I get closer to 30, I’ll start to look like you. Because I know that. So that’s why I am taking care of myself now and watching what I eat. And I’m sorry that you never did, but don’t make that my problem.
Because I would not say that I’m a “skinny bitch.” I’m skinny, sure. But if you really want, I’ll start playing the part of the bitch. I just don’t think you want that, do you?
*NOTE: I’m sorry that this was so preachy because I generally prefer to amuse you guys rather than get all “pity me while I’m on my soap box.” But sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and this was one girl who just had enough and thought it time to say something. There, I’m done now.*