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Some weekends I volunteer at an animal shelter. I don’t play with kittens or walk dogs; I clean dirty dirty dog cages. I wear an old t-shirt and a pair of grey knee-length shorts along with a filthy pair of grass green Converse that are only suitable for shelter duty.
I would normally never leave my house in an outfit like that, but I’m certainly not going to throw on a dress and cardigan to wear while crawling around in a messy cage. In order to get to the shelter I need to walk to the R train, take it 8 stops, and walk another 5 minutes—I probably pass a good 30 or so people as I make my way. Normally when I’m done, I look and smell like a pack of dogs. So I scurry home and take a hot shower.
But this Saturday I came out from the subway and decided to stop into a local super-discount closeout clothing store. They don’t have much in the way of plus-size clothes, but I’ve found some lovely things there including a great Eileen Fisher silk cashmere sweater and a pair of polka-dot Converse for dirt cheap. It was half a block from the subway, so I decided to swallow my pride and go in for a peek. First I popped over to the kid’s section because everyone I know is having a baby. I’m looking through racks and I notice two little girls, maybe 5 years old at most, running around like nuts. Their mom is on her cell and occasionally yelling at them in that ineffectual way that some parents do. She just didn’t give a damn that her kids were creating havoc. A second later, one of the girls nearly ran into me. She sized me up and said, “Excuse me BIG FAT MAN,” giggled and ran away.
She was five. And I wanted to hit her. Now just last week I was at a lecture where the subject of kids came up. I don’t expect kids to be perfect and knowing little creatures. And, well, I am fat. But there was this crazy, deep meanness to what she said. Her mom heard it and didn’t say a thing. I didn’t say a thing either because it didn’t feel like a teaching moment. Hell, I was afraid the little creature was going to kick my shin and put gum in my hair.
And then, because the universe can be generous, I heard the door to the store open up. A woman came in wearing an embarrassed look on her face, and asked the clerk where she could find wide skirts. The clerk was incredibly unhelpful, but then the woman spotted me pawing through a rack of polyester tank tops of varying awfulness. I told her how to get to a better store, right down the block, with a great plus-size department and racks and racks of skirts in her size. She was beaming and literally ran out of the store.
And then I ran out right after her because I needed to get my “big fat man” self home and showered.
