Room to Manouevre

So, where was I? Ah, yes, ruminating on the narrow straits of the world. Whilst I was thinking about writing this post, over the past two days, I realised that - as has so often been the case - the issue here really comes down to feeling shame. Shame and guilt. What, after all, is so bad about taking up more space than other people? Of seeing a space too small for you to fit through, and asking someone politely if they could squeeze in a bit for you, or even get up to let you through?

It's not a problem if you're slim, and the gap really is tiny. But if you're fat, and a thinner person would not have the same problem...well, the space you take up is guilty space. Shameful space. Space that you don't want to be taking up, and that others scorn you for, and that you don't want to admit to needing.

I remember - just one instance in a life full of them - going to the lunchroom on the first day of a new job. Let's leave aside the general difficulty of meeting new people when you are at a social disadvantage - yes, being obese is definitely that - let's just look at what the situation was. The company had a lunch room. The company had been growing exponentially, and a room that had been intended for maybe 50 or so people was now groaning at the seams, trying to hold 100. Lunch was brought in for all the employees every day from different restaurants. It was my first day. The only person I knew at the company was my boss, who'd moved over there from the company I last worked at. But he'd been there a while, and knew lots of people, and anyway, he was my boss. There was another woman who started work the same day as me, so we were both newbies together and went down to the lunchroom together.

So I'm looking at a room full of strangers, crowded round tables that have minimal room around them. Are there any empty spots at all? Ye s, a couple - but they're towards the back of the room. It'll take a lot of manouevring to get to them, and more manouevring to get out of them after the meal. And yes, you're always thinking, tense, a few steps ahead. I might get into that seat, but can I get out of it? The fat girl has started work at a new place. Anyone else fat like me? Hmm, no, not really. There's one girl, but I'm not sure if our sizes are comparable. I think I'm bigger, but I'm not sure. There's one guy who's quite big, but he's tall too, and anyway, it's different for men.

You know, that was actually a wonderful place to work. Great people, fun, accepting, warm. I've not worked there now for over five years, but I still remember it warmly. But I also remember, vividly, the feelings I had that first day, looking at the obstacle course that was the lunchroom. An obstacle course for me, a regular room for anyone else.

Guilt. Shame. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Don't look at me, please don't look at me, please don't be as repulsed by my ungainly fat as I am myself. Take the chance to get to know me; I'm really kind of a cool person. These are the unspoken, inchoate thoughts swimming behind the analysis of which route to take to the empty spot. The least embarrassing route; the one that will draw the least attention to my difficulty fitting into spaces others glide through.

When I left the restaurant the other night, the stress, the guilt, the shame I'd dealt with for so many years wasn't in evidence. It was hardly even on my radar. The only reason the subject occurred to me at all was because I'd been talking with my friend about weight, and writing about the issues in a blog. So as I easily manouevred around the crowded tables, without an ounce of shame or guilt, I was reminded of just one topic I could talk about; just one way in which life fat - or should I say life fat when being fat feels like a sin you're committing with your very being - leads to stress and pain and insecurity.

It takes time to get used to the change, of course. A few years ago I would have been more aware of the change. I remember coming home one day a couple of years ago having maneouvred successfully around an over-abundance of shopping trolleys at the exit to a supermarket and writing in my journal, exultant, about how wonderful it was to feel normal, to realise I didn't have to judge the squeeze-factor, but could just get out easily. I didn't take it for granted; it was still new then. Now it's just part of how much easier life is. I'm a different person; a person who doesn't have to think of that kind of thing anymore. A normal-sized person (yes, I know, defining normal is not all that easy, but you know what I mean).

The ease, of course, is not actually to do with the fact that being smaller, one can squeeze through smaller gaps. The ease develops because it doesn't matter how many tiny gaps there are to squeeze through; I no longer feel singled-out or humiliated because I can't get through them. If I can't get through a gap, it's because things are too crowded. Not because I'm too big.

And that makes all the difference.