Fatantha

Work is starting to make me feel very self-conscious. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been under the impression that I was skinny or whatever, but even still I’m finding work very embarrassing. The boss is very nice and everything, but I have the understanding that he thinks I’m some kind of ginormous walking female case of fat. Again, I’ll be the first to admit that I need to lose quite a bit of weight, and that I could stand to exercise quite a bit more, and that (simply put) I am indeed fat—but I hardly thought “fat” was my defining characteristic. I figured that if my defining characteristic were something negative (which it may well be), it’d probably be more along the lines of “obnoxious.”

What makes me think that my boss suspects me of eating sticks of butter like Bugs Bunny eats carrots? Well, the first day I started work, he took me to the back room to get me a uniform t-shirt. He looked at me and kind of frowned, then rummaged through the storage a bit more. He then pulled out a man’s XL shirt, and said with an unsettling amount of doubt in his voice, “Here, this miiiiiiiight fit.” As if Jesus Christ himself would first have to be resurrected and then perform a miracle in order for me to fit into that shirt. (For the record: I wear that shirt. I am basically swimming in it.)

Then, as he explained the gist of working at this pizza place, he said that I could take pizza whenever I wanted to while I was working. He then offered me a piece right then and there. I told him, “Oh, no thank you, I’m actually not too hungry at the moment.” And what did my boss say in response? “That’s probably good….you don’t really need the calories.”

I had kind of gotten over it, and instead tried to focus on being a good worker. Today though, while the boss was out, I went to the back room to wash my hands, when suddenly one of the boys says, “How’s it going, Shamen-Tah?”

For those of you who speak Hebrew, you’ll recognize the pun on the name “Samantha.” Basically my new nickname at work is “Fat-Tah.” Or, as I prefer to translate into English, though it is less precise, “Fatantha.”

My initial response was to say something mean (in jest) right back, to say that the mothers of all my coworkers were all bitches….and then I said it was mean to call me Fatantha. At which point all the boys got very concerned looks on their faces, and all insisted that they appreciated me as a coworker, that I was a good worker and a sweet girl on top of that…but they just want to call me Fatantha.

I tried not to take it to heart, and I tried joking with the boys that if they didn’t watch what they said then I’d sit on them (Weird Al? Anybody? No?)

But I’m not going to lie…I didn’t think I was fat enough to warrant my weight being the main thing my coworkers notice.

Maybe I’m just too sensitive. (Or too fat?)