An Open Letter

I had a bit of a weird experience at the gym the other day.

Finished up my workout. Went to get my stuff. Some teen girls who moved away from me on the treadmills were sat there. They took one look at me (THE ONLY OTHER PERSON IN THE CHANGING ROOM) and whispered “IT’S THE FAT WOMAN AGAIN.”

Yes. I am fat. I know this. My GP knows this. My neurologist knows this. Anyone who LOOKS at me, knows this. My BMI is 36.1. Even SCIENCE knows I’m not only fat, I’m obese. You pointing it out isn’t helpful to anyone. WE ALL KNOW.

“Why do they let fat people in here?!” you say? Because places like this are MADE for people like me. You are not even 16 and I’m not entirely sure you know what a carb is. At the very least you have never experienced the joy of a doughnut. Or several. Many doughnuts have lovingly gone into cultivating these chins.

And now I know you’re incapable of walking past me, either through fear or finding it so damn hilarious seeing a fat woman in spandex. FEAR NOT, I’m not going to eat you – I doubt you taste good or have any nutritional value.

You “whispering” obvious facts about me is the least productive use of your time. I know it’s funny that a fat woman ran on a treadmill. But I did it for 5 solid minutes having not ran in 2 years. I don’t care if I almost shat out a lung in the process. I DID IT.

Also? My butt still looks REALLY GOOD.

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