Reunion.

Oh, the dreaded High School reunion. The day many people build up in their minds to be their day of redemption, the day where all of the people who treated you like shit will see that you have become somehow worthy of their affection, or at least somehow better than they are. August 2008 seemed to follow June 1988 pretty darn fast; suddenly, I was faced with the decision to attend my reunion or not to attend.

I had plenty of reasons not to attend, and my main one was that I was (am) fat. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone to see what I had become; I didn’t want to give them the opportunity to judge me and what I had been doing for the past 20 years based on my girth. Above all things, I didn’t want my damn picture taken, and at 80something or so dollars per person, I didn’t want to spend money on such torture.

So I didn’t go. I thought about it up until the last minute. I figured I would get one of those t-shirts printed up with the fuzzy iron-on letters from the flea market in the 80’s that said something like “I’m Not Fat On Purpose” or, “It’s Not My Fault That I’m Fat” or maybe even “Ask Me About My Eating Disorder.” I’m kidding, of course, but it really got me to thinking about what society thinks when they see a fat person.

Should I even care what society thinks? Probably not. If I lived in the middle of nowhere and only saw a few people and had no access to television, magazines, or the Internet, I wouldn’t even know that being fat was a negative in American society. Ironic, isn’t it? I mean, everyone knows that most Americans are fat. Our diet industry is one of the few that doesn’t need a bailout. We have forty gazillion choices in weight loss, and none of them work, because if any one of them did, the media would be all over it, putting it in their top stories and on their covers.

But attending a reunion was different. Many of these people knew me at some point, or potentially knew of me. We had a connection simply because we shared an educational institution so many years ago. And I didn’t want them to think badly of me. Out of the well over 1,600 people with whom I graduated, would anyone not notice my fat? Every insecurity I ever laid claim to began to awaken.

Shortly after the reunion came the Facebook Deluge, as I called it. Dozens of my former classmates joined Facebook seemingly all at once, and if I was going to keep my pictures up, there was nowhere to hide. As I began to reconnect with my friends, I began to realize that I was not being scrutinized by them any more than I was scrutinizing them myself (which was not at all). How horrible of me to think so lowly of people, and how self-absorbed was I to think that my fat was of any importance to anyone but me? I suddenly realized that I was the only one allowing my fat to keep me from doing anything, and that I was missing out on potentially beautiful situations because of it.

People used to say “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” and “it’s what’s inside that counts.” I have found this to be true. I see people who are heavier than I am who I think are absolutely gorgeous, and my friends love me for who I am rather than the size of my waist. Am I being scrutinized by society? Absolutely. I have heard the whispers as I walk by, I have seen the nasty glances of the young girls working in clothing stores that contain little more than socks in my size. Maybe it’s not my fat; maybe they think I’m a bitch, maybe they like my kickass mandala necklace, or maybe they’re just jealous of my new hair (literally…but that’s another post). Maybe I should stop using my fat as an excuse for not living. Maybe I should allow myself to become more than my fat.

My loved ones have assured me that I am “not as fat” as I think I am. I have seen my reflection in store windows and dressing room mirrors, and occasionally I agree with them. I try not to compare myself to others, but I do find myself wondering if I am bigger or smaller than “that overweight woman over there,” who, incidentally, I think looks damn good.

The test came when my dear friend R arranged for another reunion; this one would be held at a local pub, and within a few months it was clear that the number of people who planned to attend could surpass the actual reunion in August. After some hemming and hawing, I decided to go. My husband came with me (I love that man), as did some of my best friends, and I was so glad to have them with me. The reunion was so much fun, it was wonderful to see friends from long ago, to reconnect with them. Was I worried about what they would think? I would be lying if I said no. But those thoughts were distant. I loved hearing voices I had not heard in years, seeing those beautiful faces, and simply sharing time with people who I have loved for a long time but have not seen.

I’m glad I went. The pictures were taken and posted on Facebook. I look really fat in some of them, pretty decent in a few of them, and great in others. My friends all look stunning.

At least I think so.