Next time you feel the need to comment on someone’s size, just don’t
People have been commenting on my body without invitation, either directly or indirectly, since I was a kid.
At 14, a man stopped me in The Warehouse to ask what size bra I wore because he wanted to buy his girlfriend one and said my breasts looked like hers: ‘‘A good handful.’’
Once, when I was in uni I was sitting in the quad minding my business when someone yelled, ‘‘eat a carrot’’. Another time I tried running down the street and some kid made a joke about an earthquake.
For the most part, this stopped happening so much as I got older. Instead, it kind of just evolved into a series of veiled microaggressions.
It’s having your pregnant colleague talk about how disgusting her newly ‘‘fat’’ body is while you sit there with your actually fat body.
It’s your straight-sized friends talking about how gross they feel after eating half as much as you at dinner.
Other times it’s something as seemingly ‘‘helpful’’ as getting a flier for a gym membership discount handed specifically to you on the street, or walking into a shop and immediately told that the ‘‘bigger sizes’’ are down the back, even though you’re actually there for a job interview.
However, during a recent trip to Countdown things got pretty explicit again. It was a weekday afternoon and I was there for less than a minute – I was just there to pick up banana boxes for moving house – and in that time, two men commented on my appearance.
The first told me to ‘‘Smile, sweetheart’’ which, obviously, didn’t go down well.
Then on my way back to the car, I passed another man – a staff member – and said ‘‘Kia ora’’, which he somehow translated to an invitation to follow me to my car.
‘‘Have you always been a big girl?’’ he asked, out of nowhere.
I’d had this conversation many times before, I knew what came next. As predicted, he went on to ask about my physical activity levels (‘‘Do you play sports?’’) and diet (‘‘Have you
tried eating less sugar – it worked for my friend’’) and then went on to tell me that I should ‘‘at least play rugby’’ as it ‘‘might help’’ and I’ve ‘‘got the build for it’’ – among other pearls of wisdom.
He wasn’t purposefully being a dick about it. He was of the older generation, so I think he genuinely thought he was helping me.
Trouble is, I don’t need help. Giving me weight-loss tips is about as useful as the guy who told me to smile in the depths of a bout of depression, because just like that guy had no idea I was super depressed, the other guy had no idea what’s going on with my size or weight.
In recent years, I’ve been learning a lot. I’ve learnt to love myself and be grateful for this body that has taken me around the world. I know that fat doesn’t always equal unhealthy, but I’ve learnt that in my case it’s starting to, so I’m taking steps towards a healthier lifestyle.
I’ve learnt to be an advocate for body positivity and self-love and I’ve learnt that if you’re happy, it’s OK to stay the way you are but that it’s also OK to want to change and you don’t owe anyone an explanation either way.
I’m doing so much work on my physical and mental health, but one look at me as I stresswalk my way out of a supermarket with armfuls of banana boxes doesn’t tell you that.
Here’s the thing: Like most women wouldn’t want to be told to get implants so they can have bigger breasts because you like them that way, and most men wouldn’t appreciate being handed steroids and protein powder because you want them to be bulkier, us fat people don’t particularly enjoy being told to slim down because it makes you uncomfortable – whether you do so maliciously, with love or inadvertently.
We’re already getting it from all sides. The whole world yells it at us every day through media, entertainment, advertising and the sheer unwillingness of the world to include us.
Even when we try to lose weight, we cop it.
Want activewear so you can hit the gym with confidence? Your plus-size choices are very limited (shout out to the team at Hine Collection for being my light in the dark though).
Want to go hiking? Good luck at the likes of Kathmandu and Macpac. Want to run down the street? Have fun with 20-year-old boys yelling abuse at you from car windows.
We eat fast food and we get ‘‘no wonder she’s fat’’. We eat salad and we get ‘‘it’s a little late for that’’. We walk into a straight-size clothing store and we get ‘‘sorry there’s nothing for you here’’. So we walk into a plus-size clothing store and we get charged 10 times as much for something our nanas wouldn’t even wear.
Trust me. We all get it.
So the next time you feel the need to comment on a person’s size, weight or perceived lifestyle, don’t.
And if you hear someone else doing it or witness these microaggressions, maybe think about how you can be an ally.
Remember that everyone’s going through something you know nothing about, and we’re all just out here trying to eat our carrots in peace.
Giving me weight-loss tips is about as useful as the guy who told me to smile in the depths of a bout of depression.