Welcome to Colorado, the skinniest state in the nation.
I’d like to say I live here because I love it, but the truth is I live here because I’m welcome. I am one of those freaks of nature who can eat whatever I want to and never gain a pound. I eat junk, drink beer and only run for the bus, and Colorado is the only place in America where I’m welcome.
A few months ago I visited Michigan (fat state No. 10) and it wasn’t pretty. My hosts took me to a local fish house for dinner. Since the all-you-can-eat buffet is wasted on me, I ordered the “sampler plate” off the menu. It was slightly smaller than Boulder County and took two waitresses to deliver. Everyone stared. I tried my best to get through it but only managed the top six inches or so (the point at which I could see my dinner companions across the table). The elderly waitresses were deeply concerned that the meal wasn’t to my liking and kept offering me free dessert. I was forced to flee.
Of all the nasty “isms” out there, the one least talked about is weightism, or, more to the point, reverse weightism.
In the past 20 years, legions of us have dropped from a size 5/6 to a size 1/2 without losing a single pound. This nefarious plot to exterminate us once and for all is known as vanity sizing.
When this happens to you, you are banished to that special ring of hell known as the juniors department, where special tortures await. You will be alone because no one will shop with you. You will be the oldest person there. Your fellow shoppers believe you to be in league with the shoplifting police and shun you. The salesgirls bring you low-rise pants and tiny tops with spaghetti straps and force you to try them on under fluorescent light.
You are ready to give up, buy six pairs of underwear and go home, but you are confronted with the thong and decide that socks might be the wiser choice.
You flee the mall.
In Skinny World, a trip to the supermarket can be a treacherous undertaking. Strangers cast sidelong glances at your shopping cart. You try to hide the chocolate-frosted Pop Tarts under the laundry detergent. You wish the Cheetos were a more discreet color.
You smile and nod politely when complete strangers in the checkout line ask how you stay so skinny. Was this meant to be a compliment? You are skeptical. Should you respond in kind? Probably not. You were a bullied dweeb in grade school and a dateless dork in high school. You are waiting for the taunt that is sure to follow.
And just when you think you may get out of the market unscathed, it happens: The automated insult. In full view of everyone, a $2 off coupon for Ensure spews from the cash register with your receipt. You flee the grocery store.
In Skinny World, you are a medical curiosity. You are turned away from the bloodmobile and everyone stares. You know what they’re thinking. Hepatitis? Mono? Tapeworm? You try to get the nurse to weigh you and your purse together. Your doctor bombards you with pointed questions regarding your eating habits. And your regurgitating habits. You turn your head during a mammogram because your nose is your most prominent “frontal feature.” You reassure your doctor that it’s not a lump. It’s a rib. You drop your health insurance and flee the facility.
Skinnies do, however, have a few things in common with the general population. We dread the bathroom scale and plot against those who decided that adding a decimal point to your weight was an innovation. The scale sets the tone. You weigh yourself in the morning and the LED flashes a cheery 105.5. You are happy all day. You smile at people on the bus and hand out dollar bills to the homeless. But if the LED reads a gloomy 99.5, you go to the dark side and suspect that you may, indeed, be harboring the aforementioned tapeworm. You name him Wally.
Marcie Morin (iluvaroadtrip@comcast.net) lives in Denver.
