Surprise #1: Getting clubbed

“Is fat really the worst thing a human being can be? Is fat worse than vindictive, jealous, shallow, boring, evil or cruel? Not to me.”
— J.K. Rowling

There’s an old SNL sketch in which Eddie Murphy, who was back as host of his alma mater, went “undercover” as a white man. (Go here if you want to see it.) Eddie’s objective, he told the audience, was to prove or disprove the notion that there are “two Americas, one white and one black.”

After spending some time in makeup, he emerged looking pretty caucasian and awfully nerdy. For the rest of the skit — in a store, on a bus, applying for a loan — “Mr. White” discovers that white people act differently toward one another when black people aren’t around.

It’s a funny sketch. It was written and performed decades ago and holds up today. It’s over the top, sure. Toned down, though, its message is probably not that far-fetched.

In the past two weeks, I’ve had a few of my own “Mr. White” moments. For my purposes, though, let’s call me “Ms. Thinner-than-I-used-to-be.”

My pre-operative weight was high enough that any reasonable person would have thought me obese. These days, while I’m definitely not thin, I don’t look nearly as fat as a I did. I’m wearing regular-size clothes and can pass for fairly healthy.

That seems — for some people, at least — to have qualified me for membership in a new club. For our purposes here, we’ll call it the “Let’s Judge Fat People” club.

(insert “Wayne’s World” squiggles here)

Sitting in a coffee shop, reading “The Hunger Games,” drinking half-caff with half-and-half.

Door opens. In walks a very large woman who looks very unhappy and very uncomfortable. She orders, picks up her drink and looks around for a place to sit. The only open seat would require that she squeeze past several other tables, likely having to ask someone to scoot in a bit.

She ponders it for a moment, then turns and walks out.

As she does, I meet the eye of the woman sitting in the comfortable chair across from mine. After a moment, she says quietly: “I can't imagine being so fat. Put down the coffee drinks and take a walk or something.”

I was horrified. I hope it showed on my face. I didn’t respond, and I don’t know why. Instead, I stared her in the eye for a couple of seconds too long, then turned back to my book. She left several minutes later.

(insert Wayne's World squiggles here)

Walking through a lower-end grocery store to pick up saltines for Urchin and her stomach virus to feed upon.

I come upon an overweight woman slowly pushing a cart filled to the brim with foods I don’t often buy. She’s walking the same direction I am, taking up much of the aisle about 10 feet from the end-cap when a small, angular woman turns into our aisle from the other direction. She appears to be in a hurry and the aisle isn’t comfortably wide enough for her to get through. So she stops and sighs.

As the overweight woman turns into the next aisle and the angular woman walks by, she says under her breath: “Probably shouldn’t be buying all that pizza.”

Again, I didn’t acknowledge. I also didn't stop her in her tracks or punch her in the nose. Again, I don’t know why.

(insert Wayne's World squiggles here)

Getting my nails done by the Russian bombshell who’s done them for years. She’s an extra-small Siberian with a big boobs whom I’d choose in a fight any day.

As I told her about my new non-diabetic label and 30-pound weight loss, I also shared the good news of a woman I met along my journey, who had surgery the day before I did.

She’s 38. She’s diabetic, hypertensive and heart-diseased. She started with 270 pounds to lose. She’s so far lost 55, and over the weekend — for the first time in nearly a decade — she walked from one end of the mall to the other without pain shooting through both knees, ankles and hips. Without getting so winded she couldn’t talk. Without having to stop for rest. It’s an amazing thing.

“You know,” says my nail girl, “if she wanted that so bad, she should have put herself on a diet for a few months and then gotten off her ass and started walking.”

“Um, no,” says I. “Not exactly. Be careful not to assume that every overweight person is lazy and unmotivated. You can’t know what’s going on in their world.”

“I know this: They let themselves get that way,” says nail girl. “I have no sympathy.”

“Um, well,” says I, “I doubt they want your sympathy.”

Silence.

“You know,” says I, “most people would look at me, even now, and say I ought to get off my ass and walk, too. I’m still 55 pounds overweight.”

“You’re different,” says she. “You don’t compare. You were sick and now you’re not. Most fat people are just fat because they eat too much and they eat the wrong kind of food.”

As proof, she offered up a story about the fatties at her gym who take full advantage of the once-a-month pizza party. I sat there wondering whether I really need to have my nails done.

It will surprise no overweight person that some people can be terribly mean. Every one of us has dealt with it in some form or another. What I can’t wrap my head around is the relative abandon with which these meanies seem share it with others.

And my relative inability to call them on it.

I’m not sure what else to say about this new phenomenon, except that I hate it and I’m done listening to it.

Now, wherever did I put my big-girl panties?