I'm a super swell human.
Don't believe me? Check out my Nobel Peace Prize. It's right up there on the shelf with the 1st Place trophy I won in the The Do-Gooder's 15th Annual Mother Theresa Impersonator contest.
And because I'm such a super swell human, I spent my perfectly sunny Sunday afternoon driving my former boss to the airport.
Here's the thing: I'm a people pleaser. Half a dozen personality tests, three separate therapists, and my bank account all agree that I need to set better boundaries. So, when my former boss asked if she could drive to my apartment, park in my complex's lot, and then have me drive her 20 minutes to the airport, and then come back several days later and pick her up when she flew back in, all so she can save on parking fees... I did the stupid thing and agreed.
I know. I know. I'm working on it. Trust me. My therapy bills prove I am working on this.
Anyway, so I'm driving her back from the airport when she says, "And one of my friends --- she's a big friend. She and you are my friends in the 'Big Girls Club.' And I was telling her about you, since you're my other big friend, because I think y'all would get along. I don't think you've met her. Have you met her?"
Um, the hell you just say???
Pro tip: If you want more tickets on the free-ride-to-the-airport gravy train, maybe don't refer to the conductor as a member of the Big Girls Club, even if she seems like she'd be all about a literal freaking gravy train.
Look, I know that only a matter of months ago, I weighed 302 pounds, but, surprisingly, I don't enjoy folks defining me by my obesity. Shocker, right?
When referring to me, use terms such as "buddy," "pal," or even "that one bitch." But oh my fracking gawwwwd, do not call me your "big friend." Also, I get that thin people might not understand the plight of the pudgy, but it shouldn't take a leap of logic to conclude that not all of us fat girls know each other.
You're not going to be like, "So, my fat friend, Irene..." and then I'll interrupt and be like, "Oh! Fat Irene? Is this the fat Irene who snarfs Cheetos to cope with her unresolved daddy issues? Or is this the fat Irene who got a tattoo of chicken wings but you can't see it them anymore because her back rolls drape over them now?"
Seriously. We don't buy our first 3X shirt and then look down and see that we have sprouted an umbilical-esque cord made of Twizzlers that allows us to feel our fellow fatties' emotions. We don't drown our sorrows by sharing recipes with other whale women at our exclusive calzone committee meetings. And we don't hit 275 pounds on the scale and then run to nearest Staples to print off our membership card. (Although, admittedly, we might not do the last one because running is hard when you're fat, and if the membership card isn't edible, what's the point?)
The only way that I will ever, ever, ever consider joining a Big Girl Club that isn't Weight Watchers is if it rewards my rotundness. I want to be able to call up Dominos and be like, "I'd like two large pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese, please. I'll pay with my card. Oh! And I'd like to use my Big Girls Club discount. That's right. My Body Mass Index is 42%, so that's the percentage you should take off my tab."
So, yeah. That was my weekend. How was yours?
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. Now that you know how my February is shaping up, how's your year going thus far? Are you also constantly amazed at the nonsense that flies out of people's mouths when you're doing favors for them? Why do people think it's totes cool to be like, "Hey, did you notice that you're fat?" What would have been the best comeback in that moment? Also, when is the last time that you asked someone for a ride to the airport? Why didn't you just call an Uber? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.