Told you so, two months ago.
I hate to even tell this story, in a way, because I worry that talking about this subject makes me seem like a hysterical attention whore. But I am going to tell it, because it bothers me, and it happens over and over again, and I want you to believe, and understand, and go forth and change your ways or the ways of others, as applicable.
There is a man at my place of work. He’s around my age. I only see him on the elevator, but I see him every other week or so. He’s been working here for maybe six months now.
Until today, he’s never spoken to me. In fact, he seemed to take great pains to avoid doing so. If you’re a fat woman, you’ll understand this part very well. You know how you’ll get on the elevator, and one of your coworkers will be there, and you’ll smile or nod, or at least make brief, polite eye contact with that coworker, just out of human decency… And then the coworker will very overtly avoid your eye contact, with an undertone of, “Oh, God, I hope this chick isn’t hitting on me.” You know? Those guys — the ones who seem to think they’re in constant danger of being raped by a woman who isn’t thin, blonde, and implanted? ( Here is a fictional reference for you, from the brilliant creator of Achewood.)
So, I figured this particular coworker for that kind of fat-phobic guy, and I dropped all pretense at friendliness with him months ago. No big deal. Men like that are everywhere (just like old women who hate young women just for being young) and I don’t need them to notice me.
Today, I got on the elevator and he was there. So, saying nothing, I turned my back on him and watched the little numbers. He said, “Hi.” I was surprised, but mumbled hi back.
He said, “How’s it going?” I answered as briefly as possible, without looking at him. Then, he said, “Headed to lunch?” I couldn’t ignore this, but I answered in disinterested monosyllables all along. But he kept talking. He said, with an ultra-sly chuckle, “Sneaking out early, huh?”
Never mind that I was not sneaking out early, that I was in fact leaving for lunch at the same time I do every day, which is the same time a lot of people go to lunch, including him, obviously. The point is, one, he was making persistent nonsensical conversation with me, even though I had my back to him and was ignoring him as much as I could. Two, he has never spoken to me until now, and the only difference between now and the last time I saw him is…
Fifteen pounds? Gone from my ass?
What a difference a size makes, apparently. Just like I said. More than once.
I told this story to one of my best man-friends, Julio. He shook his head, saying, “He messed up. Those were lame lines. He should have just said, ‘You look nice today.'”
“No,” I said. “He should have just said nothing, because he’s never spoken to me before, so why the hell would I want to speak to him now, just because he suddenly thinks I’m thin enough to speak to?”
Julio had to concur. I polled him, at that point. I asked, “Do you think this guy thinks it’s okay to only talk to me when I’m thinner? Or do you think he didn’t recognize me?”
Julio said, “I think some guys have a filter, like an email filter. They only see women they want to sleep with, so he literally didn’t see you until now.”
Gross.
Lesson, repeated and reinforced: Only talk to me now if you were already talking to me when I was fat.
And, for the record: I see everyone, whether I want to sleep with them or not. Even when I don’t want to sleep with a person in my building, I can bring myself to give them a small, phony smile. If I can do it (and I’m a bitter, miserable bitch), then anyone can do it. Show some human decency, people — maybe it’ll make you more attractive.
In more important news…
I love having a house, but I’m having trouble keeping up the lawn. (I also have trouble keeping the house clean, but the homeowners’ association doesn’t charge me for that, so who cares.)
I feel horrible about this, but I think it’s time to hire people to do my lawn. On a regular basis, maybe. See, I can get my teenaged son to mow, and I can even get him to edge and trim the hedges, but there’s no way we can compete. Not with the crappy hand tools I have in my garage. Even our edger, which is actually a weed eater, kind of sucks. In order to do the job right, I need a heavy-duty edger, a chainsaw, some giant loppers with very long handles, and, like, a goat.
And I can’t afford that stuff right now. So, I’m calling in the mens.
Recent Fantasies
You know what I think the sexiest gift would be? It’d be if you bought someone five or six gift certificates to their favorite stores, plus a gift certificate to a nice restaurant near their favorite stores, so they could have lunch amidst their shopping.
The thing is, you couldn’t get them certificates for stores that sold anything practical. No Target, no Wal-Mart, no department stores — because then they might be tempted to use the money on something practical. You’d have to do small boutiques only. Or super specialty stores. And you’d have to get them in luxurious amounts, like $100 each. See, that’s my fantasy — to win the lottery and then buy my friends this stuff for their birthdays. Five or six gift certificates, stacked up and tied with ribbon. Forced shopping. Sexy fun.
Here are my five, impractical fantasy gift certificates:
Sephora
the Body Shop
Ulta (a local salon products shop — God, how many bottles of crap do I need?)
Borders
the Bead Shop, in Houston’s Rice Village
I’m getting faint just thinking about it. I’d better quit…
