More to Love (Part I)
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Chubby. Plump. Big. Heavy. Full. Plus-sized. Fat.
We often hear or read these words whenever an overweight person is described. A lot of times, these are used in a deregatory manner, with the intent to insult. What these idiots don't know, what they don't realize, is that the people they're looking down on are, in fact, people too.
I do, for a fact, think that chubby girls are cuter. There's just more to love. I'd choose them any day over those reed-thin model wannabes.
I'd rather hug a pillow than a broomstick.
This is dedicated to chubby girls everywhere. No matter what people say, you're beautiful and original and that's all that matters.
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Friday.
4:45 PM.
An empty parking lot.
An exclusive school for girls.
"Hey, Michelle! Can we talk?"
"Hey, Rita. What's up?"
"Um, I was talking to Mary and Ellen at lunch. Um, they said some things."
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"Well, um, they said that they, um, saw you with Carlo last tuesday night in Shangri-La."
"And?"
"And, well, that, you were hanging out with him in the Starbucks smoking area."
"So? What are you getting at, Rita?"
"Michelle, you know that I like him!"
"Well, he doesn't like you. He likes me."
"What?"
"Yeah, he doesn't like fat girls. Frankly, I don't either."
"What did you say?"
"Oh, please, Rita, you're not his type. He told me so. He doesn't like you, fatso!"
"Fatso!"
"Fatso!"
Fatso.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Monday.
A condo in Ortigas.
Now.
Fatso.
Rita woke up to her alarm. She rubbed her eyes and and squinted at the clock.
5:30 AM.
Fatso.
Some things just stay with you, even after all these years.
Rita sighed and sat at the edge of her bed. She hated Mondays. She hated going to work. She hated that it rained yesterday and her clothes weren't completely dried. She hated that she had no choice but to wear her purple top to the office, the one that accentuated her 38C boobs. She hated having attention on her.
Fatso.
She hated Michelle. She hated being fat. She hated waking up alone.
Rita sighed again and slumped back on the bed. In the fifteen years since high school, she has had one relationship (two years), lost twenty pounds (okay, sixteen and a half) and has kept this feeling of resentment and bitterness (fuckity fuck!).
Thirty minutes later, she emerged from the shower, towel around her body. She stepped in front of the full length mirror and took off the towel. Rita just stood there, arms at her side and stared at her reflection. She turned sideways and admired the way her boobs looked from this angle. They were big, not saggy but full. She ran her hands over her naked stomach, tapping it a few times.
"Hey there, old buddy."
Rita smiled weakly and sighed. She picked up the towel and dried her hair. She looked out the window and noticed that it was drizzling. Jacket weather. For the first time that day, she felt happy.
She hummed a Madonna song while dressing up and in forty five minutes, was out the front door and on her way to the office, unaware of an impending blast from the past.
"Hurt that's not supposed to show
And tears that fall when no one knows
When you're trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less
Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
What it feels like for a girl"
********** To Be Continued **********