Fatness can creep up on you. You don’t notice a pound here or a couple of pounds there. But then, one day, bam! You frickin’ notice. And it ain’t pretty.
It happened to me the first day of my new job as a cheese-maker. Cheesemakers wear “whites.” White pants (trousers in British) and white shirt. Obviously, this particular fashion garment colour was a man’s decision. Women will know what I mean. But hey, I was game. This was the first day of my new life. This job would make me a real person, all the immigration crap would be worth it, and I’d finally be accepted by the Scottish people. Hah!
After a brief tour of the cheese-making facilities, my trainer directs me to a room to get ready. It’s not a room so much as a hall between other rooms, a small space surrounded by doors. The cheesemakers are all men, so this is not a big deal for them. I’m assured that no one will come in until I’m ready. I root around the bin of clothing and I find a large shirt. Fits great. Now for the pants. Medium, small, small, small, medium. Oh shit. Fatness might have been creeping up on me, but I have not been a medium for many years. I hold up a pair of medium trousers, pull at the elastic waist band and frown. I pull harder. Nope, that is not nearly big enough. I start to sweat as I paw through the rest of the clothes.
There, at the bottom, there is a pair of pants with no elastic. The waist is enormous. They will fit, but there is a distinct possibility that at some point they will fall down. The idea does not appeal. Hmmm… maybe the medium will fit. I shove my legs in and pull. The waistband doesn’t make it past my upper thighs. Double shit. I have a decision to make. Either I put some muscle into it to get them over my hips and accept the possibility I may never get them off again, or I can go with the enormous pair. I am struck with indecision, standing in the hall with the pants halfway up my legs and getting redder in the face and sweatier by the second.
Big, I’ll wear the big pants. I whip off the mediums and throw on the clown pants. They sag, but it’s worse than I thought. There is a fly on the front with no fastening hanging open. A knock on the door, “Are you ready?” Panic. “Yes,” I lie. I quickly pull down my shirt, covering the gaping fly and plaster an easy-going smile on my face.
For the rest of the day, I learn how to make cheese while surreptitiously trying to prevent any unintentional flashing.
The first day passes and I don’t see any traumatized expressions on my co-worker’s faces, so I think I managed to stay decent. At the end of the day, I throw the trousers in the laundry bin and put on my own pants with relief.
“Can you work tomorrow?” asks my boss. Well, I must have done ok. I wasn’t supposed to come in again until next week, but I agree readily.
The next day, I bring in an elastic belt to hold up the big pants. I’m impressed with my cleverness. No need to risk flashing anyone and I can fix my full attention on the job. I search through the bin of trousers for the big pants. My fingers touch the cold metal of the bottom of the bin and panic seizes my muscles.
They are not here.
I pull out a pair of medium pants. Surely these are mislabeled. They must be small. I pull out another pair. Maybe they are marginally bigger. A drop of sweat trails down my back. I could just leave. Get in my car and drive away and pretend all this didn’t happen. But I think I like this job. And they know my phone number and my address. How would I explain my disappearance? Also, I think my husband figure out I’m no longer employed.
Or, I could be an adult and tell my trainer I’m too fat for the trousers. I think about my co-workers. My vegan, fit, exercise-happy, uber-healthy co-workers who cycle fifteen miles to work everyday. Nope. Not going to be an adult today.
Only one choice remains. I get a good grip on the mediums, breathe out and suck my belly in, legs tensed, biceps straining, I yank the pants up. The waistband inches over my thighs. I pull harder. Wham! The elastic snaps around my waist. I did it. Tentatively, I breathe in. It’s not a full breath, but heck it’s good enough to sustain life. The pants aren’t too bad. It feels a bit like wearing a corset. English women used to wear these every day. I got this.
Taking small steps, I walk into the cheese room and get to work. Nobody comments on the fact my thighs are straining to escape from the constricting white fabric. I get through most of the day without hulking-out.
The cheese is safely in the drying room and it’s cleanup time. The last job is cleaning the floor grates. My boss squats down as easily as a five-year-old waif and pulls up a grate, showing me how to brush it clean. “So, can you finish this off?” he asks.
I look at him. I’ve managed most of the day without bending over more than 15 degrees and squatting will probably cut me in half. Christa Galloway, tragically killed by an elastic band. The mortuary had to sew her torso back onto her body.
Be an adult, Christa, tell him you can’t possibly bend down in these tight pants. Tell him you need bigger trousers.
Do I fess up? Nope. I just nod. I discover I can clean the grates by kneeling instead of squatting if I mostly bend at the knees and straighten when I need to breathe. By the end of grate cleaning, it is clear to me the medium pants are not going to work. The five-minute struggle to remove the pants at the end of the day confirms it.
That night, I drive home mad at myself for being immature and ashamed of being fat. I comfort myself by eating an entire bag of Doritos and a bag of chocolate.
I tell myself I can postpone the inevitable awkwardness because the enormous trousers should be washed by now. The next day, I search through the bin. They are still not here. Tears well, sweat collects, breath becomes shallow. I feel the dread of realizing there is just no good outcome. My brain is full of white noise. Can’t think.
Time must have passed because, my trainer comes over and asks if everything is okay. I have no choice, it’s time to grow up. I straighten my shoulders. I say none of the trousers will fit. I need a large size.
“But have you tried the mediums? They’re huge,” he says. I know what you’re thinking, but he is still alive. His wide-eyed innocence only marginally protects him as my self-loathing gathers and re-directs into a stoney glare. He gulps. “I’ll order you some troosers,” he says. His Scottish twang tempers my rage only slightly.
He is as good as his word, and the next week the large troosers arrive. Pulling the waistband easily over my hips, I smile. Yes, I’m still fat, but my self-loathing has ebbed to a dull throb. It occurs to me I could have been honest from the beginning and avoided a lot of emotional turmoil and shame. It pains me to admit that at 42-years-old, I still have a lot of growing up to do.
I did end up tearfully confessing my insecurities to a co-worker. She responded with hugs and empathy. When I called myself fat, she corrected me, saying I’m not fat, I’m voluptuous. Her compassion made me stop and think about the negative spiral I get into about my weight. I may be “a large” but I am not defined by my pant size. I am an empathetic listener, a creative writer, a good mother and wife and a decent human being. My co-workers were not the source of my shame, I was.
If you find yourself in a situation like this, give people a chance to be kind, they might surprise you. And if not, f—k ‘em.