The Shallowest of Concerns, Yet Every One is Concerned

What do you think of every day?
Your job?
Your dog?
Your habits?
What do you think of every day of your damn life?

I think about fat.
Mine.
My fat.
The way my soft belly rolls pour over my belt
The way my hips rest atop my jeans
The way my arm flesh oozes out of a tank top
Not understanding how it came to me
Understanding how it came to me

I never talk about it
Except in constant conversations with myself
Unable to ignore my reflection in a building’s window
The acceptable studied reflection in my office bathroom
The required sizing up which happens before
Leaving the house for a failed date
Or a meeting with a friend

Hide it.
Accept it.
Loathe it.
Ignore it.
Hide it.
Work on it.
Hate it.

Sometimes I forget about it
But only when I’m drunk
Or in the dark
Or eating
Or lost in a film full of the skinniest mother fuckers
In the world

It’s become my oldest friend
And oldest foe
The comparisons to strangers are the worst
It could be worse
It could be so much better,
Is she fatter than me?

My ex-husband used to say
He admired me for not caring
But I’ve always cared
So much more than he ever knew
And now you know it too

When fat is your fourth grade identity
When you have it to blame on failed relationships
When you have to dress it
And wash it
And rub it down with lotions
When you spread your legs for waxing
Or for dick
When you’re constantly reminded of how ugly
And awful
And tragic
Fat is
You want it as far away from you as possible
And unless you can pay for a suction procedure
Or a surgery that kills a vital organ
You only want time to run
And the will-power to turn down cake
And French fries
And beer
And hope that at the end of the week
You may have made a difference
But you never do
So you begin again
With the fat
And the inability to make it go away