L’Esprit de L’Escalier (“But I love my fat arse!”)

I was strutting through one of the more fashionable parts of the city on my way to work the other day.  I was feeling pretty cheerful – the sun was making a rare appearance and I was wearing my favourite little red dress, which is probably a little shorter than is generally advised for women with thighs of my size, but I’m pretty fond of my tree-trunk thighs so I don’t care.  And then a woman approached me.  She approached me very specifically, having not bothered the blokes or the slender women in front of me.  And she handed me a little flyer and said, “New formula meal-replacement shakes.  You should try them.  They’d be good for you.”  I’d been trotting along in my own little world not expecting to talk to anyone, so it took me several paces for the coin to drop: she meant weight-loss shakes!  Instantly, I wished I’d handed the flyer back to her and said, “Oh, I don’t need these.  I love my fat arse!”  But that moment had passed.  Instead I carefully screwed up the flyer and dropped it into the nearest bin, vaguely hoping that the woman was watching.

I carried on walking past all the dress shops filled with dresses that wouldn’t fit around one of my tree-trunk thighs, waiting for that sad sinking feeling to hit – that “Ohhhh no, a stranger thinks I’m fat” feeling.  And then the most amazing thing happened – nothing.  I kept strutting my way to work, pretty cheerful because the sun was shining on my thighs, exposed by my little red dress.

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One thought on “L’Esprit de L’Escalier (“But I love my fat arse!”)

  1. […] I am perhaps more privileged in this way than I think I am.  Then I remembered the blog entry immediately prior to this one and a bunch of other similar and worse instances, and quickly disabused myself of that notion.  […]

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