I found this post on a new blog I came across... The blog is called Curvy Girls and you can check it out
here.
I've always been the curvy girl. Not necessarily the "fat friend" but usually the "fattEST friend" of the group. No matter how much I exercise or starve myself I will never be a size 6. It's just not genetically possible.
This post (which I've copied below) brought tears to my eyes and explaines EXACTLY how I feel most of the time around my friends.
"I’ve felt like the fat friend my entire life. Even though, looking back on it now, I would kill to look the way I did in high school, but even then, I was the biggest girl on the cheerleading squad and the one written about on the bathroom wall.
Meredith Ludwig is a big blue pig.
I must have had a blue shirt on that particular day. As it turns out, thighs that rub together in high school aren’t very cool.
In order to keep my sanity and not be one of those girls who hated everyone, I developed a self deprecating sense of humor that looks at the world and says, “Do you think it’s funny to make fat jokes about me? OMG! So do I! Let me show you what Spanx look like! I actually invented them my Freshman year of college, and had I known it was marketable to cut the toes out of your pantyhose, I’d be super rich today!”
But the truth of the matter is, unless you are the fat friend in your group, you have no idea how left out you can feel at times simply because of your size.
Sometimes I feel like I’m kept around to make my other friends feel better about themselves. Do you need more motivation to eat a salad and take your daily run? Take a look at me. Don’t worry, I’ll just be sitting here stressing out about my double chin in that photo you tagged of me on Facebook.
Some days it’s easy to be friends with my friends, and some days it’s extremely difficult.
Shopping With You
Can we just shop at places that have both of our sizes? I agree with you. Express has some really cute clothes. Here’s the thing about Express, nothing fits me there. I hate it, but I’m too ashamed to admit this to you. It’s just easier to write it, and hopefully, since I think you really are my friend, you’ll stop asking me to go there.
I also don’t want to share a dressing room. I cannot buy things without trying them on, unless it’s something stretchy. My jeans are more comfortable with stretchy stuff in them, so please stop telling me to get a “regular” pair of jeans.
And I cut the tags out of my suit jackets and coats. This way, when I take them off at work, no one will see that it says size 14 or XL.
Being Your Bridesmaid
Please, please, please do not ask me to be in your wedding. It’s not that I don’t want to be in your wedding, or be shown off to the world as your best friend, but I can’t do it in a short, hot pink, strapless dress. I really cannot wear this dress twelve weeks after I’ve given birth. It takes a minute for my fat-girl body to bounce back. And by a minute, I mean I’m still working on it three years later.
I know I don’t look pretty. I don’t
feel pretty. I feel like a whale crammed into a tiny pink dress. And why am I ordering a size 24 dress anyway? What is the deal with wedding dress designers? I’m a pretty solid 14, but the dress shop wants to make sure I have “plenty of room for giant boobs…” as they shout out the dress size for the rest of the bridal party to hear.
You see, I’ll never complain about the tiny dress your size 4 cousin picked for us. I wouldn’t dare. It’s your special day, and a real friend won’t sabotage the best day of your life. I’ll wear the dress (silently) grudgingly, swear off carbs for two months, and cry the morning of your wedding before arriving at the church.
My tears will be justified since at your wedding reception, I will overhear an older girl from our high school say,
Is that Meredith Soleau? Jeez. She blew up!
And then I’ll wrap myself in that shawl thing you gave us and drink myself into a stupor. But I’ll do this for you, because we are best friends, and I’ll apologize later when I don’t look as pretty as the rest of the girls in your very expensive photos.
Pictures With You
Picmonkey is my best friend. I can use the “clone” tool like no one’s business.
I want the world to see us when we went to New York City together for that girls weekend, but I can’t stomach my flabby arm next to your skinny arm.
See? All fixed.
Photo courtesy of Lotus.
I beg of you, please don’t tag me on Facebook before I’ve decided if my head is tilted in that special way, in a complete down-shot, so my double chin isn’t visible. And for the love of everything holy, please let me stand in the back of the photo. I want to hide my belly if I can.
Please understand, I’m super self conscious of myself in photos ever since that pink dress wedding. So when I see, “So-and-so has tagged you in a photo on Facebook.” I literally stop whatever I am doing, and run to the computer.
Your computer is not broken. Do not continue to re-tag photos of me that look like this:
This picture is from three years ago, and it still haunts me.
Working Out With You
I finally broke down in your kitchen and balled my eyes out.
I’m fat and I hate myself for it. Look at you. You work out. You deserve to look the way you look. Please take me with you to the gym.
You hug me and pet my hair and tell me lies.
You’re not fat, honey. You’re really thin. Almost gaunt. And anyone that says differently is a liar. But you can work out with me. Have you ever tried Spinning? It’s great for any fitness level!
I end up loving Spinning, for the first five minutes. And then that small bike seat really starts to hurt my big butt. I really want to stop, but I can’t stop because I don’t want you to think I’m a quitter.
Push through the pain, Meredith!
The… bike… I think… I’m… too… my butt…. How much… longer?
Meredith! Are you okay over there?! You can’t even talk , and your face is so red! We still have fifty-five more minutes to go!
Yes, I actually do feel like I’m dying. Fifty five minutes?! On Friday, when this class meets again, I’ll have plans. It’s basically a survival tactic at this point because again, I am too embarrassed to tell you I cannot do something you can do.
Going Out With You
That new club that opened up downtown; the one with the $20 cover that you never have to pay, and you know I won’t have to pay it if I come as your guest?
I don’t want to go to that club.
I will be the only person there with spanx and a line of back sweat down her red JC Penny dress.
You, on the other hand, you will be stunning just like you always are. All the boys will buy you drinks, and you’ll be telling them to grab one for me as well.
At this club, I become your DFF (designated fat friend).
It’s not that I require men to buy me drinks. Actually, I’d prefer to buy my own drinks, and I am sure my husband would prefer that as well. It just feels really weird when you keep reminding the guy (who is slobbering all over) that it’s rude to ignore me.
Just let me buy my own drinks.
Let me pay the cover without feeling totally disgusting when you threaten the doorman by saying, “What about Meredith? I don’t go in if she has to pay.”
And know that I appreciate what you’re doing here, I really do, I love you for it. You’re making sure I feel included. But kindly know that sometimes, I sincerely don’t feel comfortable doing the same things you do.
And this isn’t me asking you for a compliment. This is me saying to you,
I know I’m the fat friend. I’m coming to terms with it. You and I don’t have to act like I look like someone I’m not.
I know this isn’t your problem, it’s mine. Thank you for being so patient as I sort all of this out."
