If you’re right about your fat friend’s health.

Your assumptions about your fat friend’s health might be frustratingly wrong. But what if they’re right?

Art via Animalia Life.

A friend was visiting from out of town. We’d spent the evening before drinking and talking, and were looking forward to a hungover breakfast at a nearby diner.

The week before, I’d been inundated with emails and comments from trolls. You won’t be screaming about acceptance when you lose a foot. I hope this fat f*** knows the strain she puts on her heart when she tries to stand up. You’re damn right I’m fat shaming — fat people should be ashamed.

My friend’s visit was a happy respite, an opportunity to commiserate and blow off steam. We sat down at the diner and began a conversation with the couple next to us, an outgoing pair, eager to talk about the sports news of the day. After a few minutes of happy and boisterous conversation, we each returned to our breakfasts and our respective conversations.

Between my friend’s remarks, pieces of our neighbors’ exchange lodged in my skin like shrapnel.

“She’s the heaviest she’s ever been. She won’t hear anything about it from anyone. She says she’s ‘hurt’ and ‘offended’ when it comes up.” The slim woman next to me salted her eggs and sighed with knowing exhaustion. “I told her, just spend one year counting every single thing you eat. You’ll be amazed at what happens in a year. I lost ten pounds in three months. The weight just melts off.”

Her companion jumped in. “I could talk to her. I lost 15 pounds and kept it off. It’s not hard,” he offered.

“We all know she needs to lose 100 pounds,” she offered, her indignation turning to anger.

“At least,” he added.

“Right. Probably closer to 150. But we’re not allowed to talk about it.”

My skin stung with the familiarity of the conversation, the thin naivety of believing that fat people simply don’t know we’re fat, or that we haven’t been told about calorie counting, Whole 30, Keto, Atkins, Paleo, Slim Fast, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem, South Beach. That we haven’t tried them all.

The deep belief that there is no difference between losing fifteen pounds and ten times as much. The noblesse oblige of becoming a missionary for thinness, spreading the Good Word. The ease with which they saw their own bodies as accomplishments. The readiness with which they thought of fat bodies as failures, pitiable attempts that fell short of their own admirable standards. They had mastered the piety and penitence of thinness. Fat people needed their salvation.

I wondered who they were talking about. Was she a daughter? A niece? A friend, or a coworker? Was she in denial about her size, as they thought? Or did she sense their naked judgment, and decide to save herself the familiar pain of justifying the only body she had? Maybe she simply felt exhausted by explaining her body to every person who felt entitled to ask. When did she first prove herself unqualified, in their eyes, to look after her own body? When did they decide that hijacking it was the best way forward?

“She insists she’s happy, but we all know that’s a lie.”

“I don’t care how happy she is. If she doesn’t make some changes, she’s going to die. And it’ll be her own damn fault.”

And there it was: the familiar proclamation of a fat person’s impending demise. The exasperation that almost turns to gloating. The ugly satisfaction of predicting a fat person’s death.

“I’m just concerned for her,” she sighed. “I just want to know she’s motivated. Is that so much to ask?”

It was.