There are M&M wrappers in my purse and under the seat of my car. I am the fattest mom at the park. I am the only mom who has brought food with me. I brought my own chair too. Those wooden benches are way too hard on a fat butt.
I am 5’6” and I weigh 265 pounds. I have been every size from a 10 to a 22. Right now, I’m a fat salmon swimming upstream from a size 20 to a 22.
I am sweating. The other moms at the park wear halter tops and shorts. It is 85 degrees outside and I am wearing jeans and two shirts. The longer outside shirt serves as something I refer to as my fat uniform. Long sweaters can be part of the uniform. So can black stretchy leggings.
When I take my clothes off at night, I have marks around my waist where my jeans hang on for their tight ride all day.
The roots of my fat are strong. They dangle and twist together so tightly there is no prying them loose. I water them daily with mean words, looks in the mirror.
It’s time to leave the playground. I can hardly get out of my canvas chair. A thin mom watches me strain. I leave with my plump pale breasts, my full moon butt, my thick thighs.
In my obit I’m sure it will say, We couldn’t fit her ass into a casket. She will be rolled into the ground at 3 p.m. Friday.
I walk by windows downtown on my way to get coffee. I see my head bobbing on top of a fat roll, a wide flat butt and hear thighs whooshing together trying to not be heard as the warm wind blows.