Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I got a coffee again today not so much for the thrill of the bean, but for the thrill of being the only leather jacket, cargo pants Matt ‘n Nat bag customer at the executive Starbucks in the financial district.

And, for being the only customer with a full head of hair. It’s amazing how 40-ish MBA’s have receding hairlines to match their black suits and charcoal trench coats. Not to mention their pallor complexions, and the same way they all seem to order their coffee. Or in the words of the barker: “Grande latte, no fat, grande latte, no fat, one espresso, grande latte, no fat, tall maple latte no whip, two espressos, venti Ethiopian roast, black.” Guess which one was mine?

I was about to berate myself for getting coffee at all – I’m supposed to quit, remember – when I arrived at work only to find that math had been cancelled, and I was going back to the special class.

Now I wish I had gotten three coffees, king sized. I’m already awake enough, I just feel I should drug myself into complete stupefaction before walking through that door. In the least, my shaking hands and saucer eyes would convince them all that I am indeed a psycho and to stay the hell away from me, or, it will help me displace the blame when I burst out laughing at their early morning aerobics. “Really, it’s not me. It’s the coffee.”

That behaviour will either get me out of the special class forever, or worse, put me into it.

I’m a little hard on the special class, and sometimes, I think I have good reason. For one, I think they are spoon-fed for the most part. When you were suffering through term papers, resume updates and dead end paths did anyone ever sit you down and ask, “Do you feel safe here?” When the only job you could get after school was at McDonalds, when a dear friend passed away or you couldn’t afford to eat for a week, did anyone care if you didn’t or didn’t feel good? No, because that was a part of life that you were expected to suffer through. Chin up, eye on the prize, keep forging ahead, right?

When you gained a few extra pounds, when your family was getting on your case, whenever you were stressed out beyond belief was there a course you could take, for extra credit, no less, designed to make you feel better about it all?

I’m guessing no, and I’m guessing that your alternative was to see a high-priced therapist instead. Emphasis on “high price.”

There is one good thing about the special class though, and I have to give them credit for that much. Imagine how wonderful it would be to assume aerobics is normal for every class, everywhere, and that we are able to make the world a safe and happy place for everyone, including ourselves.

Wouldn't that be simple. And wouldn't that be nice.