To the people I know and love, I’m overweight. To just about everyone else in the Western world I’m a fat girl. When I’m shopping in a store that couldn’t possibly stock my size, I’m a fat girl. When I’m shopping for a bra in one of Canada’s largest (and I don’t mean cup size) lingerie retailers, I’m a fat girl. When a stranger sees me chowing down a cereal bar in public, I’m a fat girl. When I’m eating right, working out, and actually losing some of the junk in my trunk, I’m a fat girl.
It doesn’t matter that I’m shopping in the skinny store for some stylish accessories or a fashionable gift for a friend. Or that there’s only a handful of lingerie stores in the country with holders to support my boulders. Or that I’m devouring said cereal bar in an effort to recover from my 3 times per week 2-hour torture session with my hot shot celebrity trainer . I’m still a fat girl.