Today I almost shook the shit out of the woman in front of me in line at Subway. I stood behind her as she ordered her 3rd sandwich, literally. She kept on asking the “Sandwich Artist” dumb questions such as “what goes with italian bread?” and “what do most people put on the cold cut sandwich?” Really lady?! You’ve watched that much reality TV that you’re unable to even make up your damn mind when it comes to a Subway sandwich?! Really? And I’m supposed to believe everyone on this Earth has a purpose? Okay…yeah…right.
What made it worse is I hate Subway. I was mad I was there. Angry at myself for not packing a lunch or better planning my travels. But, alas, that was the only convenient food stop that could accommodate my vegan lifestyle, and not kill me. So why do I hate Subway? Here goes:
- It’s not as healthy as it claims
- Jarred is not actually the role model of health, fitness, or weight loss – he’s the role model of mediocrity
- Their vegetables ain’t that fresh
- The Sandwich Artists are less like Picasso and more like 4 year olds in arts and crafts
- That community knife they insist on using to cut EVERY sandwich, no matter what’s on it – I don’t want your mayonnaise and swine residue on my veggie delight, please and thank you
- The inability of all the Indian/Pakistani “Sandwich Artists” to understand simple adjectives like a little, a smidgen, some more, and a dab.
- The customer who comes in with a list of 5 sandwiches written on a post-it cause they’re the flunky that has to pick up lunch for all their cubemates
- The customers who walk in with NO IDEA on what they want and insist on holding up the line while thinking through every aspect of the sandwich as if it’s fuckin’ rocket science
Honestly, I can go on and come up with a million reasons why I hate Subway. Actually, that may be tomorrow’s post, “100 Reasons I Hate Subway.” However, my disgust for Subway only served to shed light on my disgust for people. Not all people. Just the people who don’t take care of themselves.
Today I shall focus on the fat. And I don’t mean every fat person. I mean the fat people that aren’t trying. The “fuck it, I’m fat” folks. The ones who scoff at joining Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig. The ones who insist on buying one seat on the airplane, taking up two, then getting mad at you for being angry at them for taking up your seat. The ones who go to Chipotle and get double meat, a ladle of sour cream, and scrunch up their face at the burrito maker while blurting out “OH NO!” when offered lettuce. The ones who hold you up in Subway, while disgusting you at the same damn time by asking for extra meat, extra cheese, and extra mayo. Those are the fat mother fuckers I’m mad at.
Now, before I go any further, for those who don’t know, I am formally fat. Not thick. Not big boned. Not chubby. Not pudgy. Not husky. Fuckin fat. Here’s a picture.
And some of the men who like big girls are looking at that picture thinking “that ain’t fat, that’s just thick” or “you look good with some meat on your bones” or, my favorite, “I’d still hit it.” I hear ya. I just did not like being fat. And yes, I considered myself fat back then and I consider my previous self fat now. My BMI was ridiculous. I had several backs. My clothing size was in the double digits. Everything jiggled. That, my friend, is not dope.
Back to the “fuck-it, I’m fat” people. I am disgusted with them because I’m angry.
Disclaimer: Before I proceed, I want to point out, my anger does not come from a place of logic. Therefore, if something in this post does not make sense, it’s the anger talking, not the former, logical engineer.
The “fuck-it, I’m fat”: November 2012, I was diagnosed with SLE, better known as Lupus. I was pissed and still remain pissed about this. Why? Because I take such good care of myself! I lost 60+ pounds, I exercise at least 5 times a week, I maintain a pretty strict vegan diet, I rarely drink, and I constantly educate myself on nutrition, mental health, and general good practices. I got Lupus. What. The. Fuck.
The challenge having Lupus is it isn’t Cancer. Meaning, if you tell folks you have Cancer, they automatically start offering help, they feel some sort of compassion, they’re doing marches for your ass, getting t-shirts made, growing out their hair for Locks of Love, mentioning you in their prayer groups – all kinds of shit. Got wristbands and ribbons, lighting candles – you name it, they got propaganda, well wishes, and Jesus, all in support of your Cancer.
Lupus, not so much. Matter of fact, the tag line for Lupus should be “It Ain’t Cancer.”
Having Lupus scares the shit out of me. I would’ve actually quit my job sooner, had I not been diagnosed. After experiencing a Lupus flare, which was probably the most painful days of my life, I vowed I would do whatever it took to never go through that again. Arthritis set in throughout my entire body. I couldn’t even wipe my own ass. Thank the Universe for a caring boyfriend to pick up the Prednisone and open the childproof caps the idiots at Rite-Aid provided me. (Smart move putting childproof caps on the medication of someone suffering from Arthritis).
Since being diagnosed, I’ve taken high dosage Vitamin D pills, Prednisone, Naproxen, and Plaquenil. Huge change coming from a firm believer of Hippocrates’ logical, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” The Plaquenil, the medicine of choice for Lupus patients, per my Rheumatolgist is actually an anti-malaria medication. WE DON’T EVEN GET OUR OWN MEDICATION!
In addition, the Plaquenil comes with a long list of side effects such as thinning hair (I am currently experiencing), potential blindness (so far so good – I see the ophthalmologist twice a year), and sun sensitivity (I have not been able to leave the house without sunblock since being diagnosed). I’ve also had to get off of birth control pills since hormones may cause a flare AND if I get pregnant, it’s considered high risk. Thank God the boyfriend and I already decided we were anti-kids.
So, what does this have to do with the “fuck-it, I’m fat?” I get angry and disgusted and annoyed when I see folks destroying their bodies. I am pissed when folks stand in line, killing themselves slowly at Chipotle. I am frustrated when folks treat exercise as some sort of chore, or optional activity – as if they should be celebrated for walking a mile or taking the steps instead of the elevator. What’s even more infuriating is they’re doing this to their children. They’re polluting the body of kids, teaching horrible eating habits, establishing and developing unhealthy relationships with foods. This is child abuse. This is self abuse. If these folks only knew how lucky they are for having an immune system that didn’t attack itself, maybe they would treat their bodies with more respect. Maybe they would not look at food as reward, comfort, and hobby. Maybe they would view food for what it really is: nourishment and energy. Instead, I am forced to stand behind these “fuck-it, I’m fat” folks, in Subway, watch them pollute their body, while I deal with daily chronic joint pain. The shit ain’t fair.
And that is why I am angry.