I was in a store today where everything I liked was either size 6 or smaller. My sister kept saying "size 6. Put it down" Like I want to carry a size 6 around. The minute I see a size like that I drop it like a hot tamale. Those size 6 chicks can be pretty bitchy about big girls manhandling their clothes.
I was a size 6 once. I vaguely remember the first time I got to carry my size 6 pants to the register, feeling weak and feeble hoping I had carrots at home. I stayed that size for one year. I bought a shitload of clothes that year. "Is that a size 6? I'll take it! I don't care if it's hot pink and Kelly green pin striped. I know I don't belong to a country club but I might! I am a size 6 ya know!"
Tiny sales people are the worst. They're always like "Are you finding your (pause) size ok?" It always sounds like they are less concerned if I am finding clothing in my size and more interested if I am actually ok with my size. "Are you ok with being the largest girl in the store right now?" I swear they only order one or two size 10 or 12s so they sell out quick and then the whole store can be filled with skinny girls talking about their high metabolism and long-term, committed boyfriends.
I'm hoping I'm still a size ten. Besides busting buttons off my pants recently, I ripped through the inner thigh portion of a pair of jeans the other day, and not on the seam. I'm praying that I am not on the brink of the "biggest I ever was" portion of my life. Right now, the fattest I remember being was the third grade and I wasn't happy about it. A boy in my class called me fat at recess and I chased him down and flipped him over back onto the cement and knocked the wind out of him.
He never called me fat again.
At least not to my big freckled face.
Kendra is a stand up comic living in Brooklyn where she owns a super comfortable bed. She spends most of her time wondering where the hell her sugar daddy is and hoping he didn't settle.