I walked into my boss’ office earlier today to grab some hand sanitizer, being something of a germaphobe.  One of the IT guys was sitting at her desk, working on her computer.  She was on the opposite side, shuffling some papers.
       “We’re all doing Curves, starting next week.  You want to do it with us?” Bosslady asked, giving me that look.  I get it, lady; I’m fat.  This fact does not escape me every time I look in the mirror.  No need to keep reminding.
        With some effort, I managed to quell the urge to roll my eyes.  There’s always some new diet the office girls are trying out, and it changes from week to week.  They always ask me if I want join in.  Weight Watchers, Atkins, South Beach, we’re going to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays, do you want to come?  All said with innocence brimming in their eyes, all guileless good intentions.  One day I pranced into Bosslady’s office in a new outfit I’d spent $100 dollars on, makeup carefully applied, hair done.  She’d been critical of my clothes the week before, so, ever eager to please, I attempted to find something more appropriate.  I thought I looked pretty good, but she just looked me up and down, lips pursed, and told me I needed some lipstick.  I quit trying to look nice after that.
        I eyed the piles of copied paper she was organizing on her desk.  Charts and graphs and detailed lists of what miniscule, bland bits of food one is allowed to eat.  Boiled eggs, no yolk, and a single slice of broiled Canadian bacon, or something similar, probably.  I wrinkled my nose at the thought.
        “No thanks.  Too much work for me.”  The IT guy seconded my opinion.  Bosslady kept giving me the look that said, Really?  Have you had a look at yourself lately?  Might want to reconsider.
         I tried to justify myself.  “I’ve been cutting back on my own.  Already lost a little.”  I demonstrated this by pulling at the waistband of my jeans, showing them the gap in between them and the skin of my gut.  I was quite proud of it, that half inch of empty space that signified all my hard work over the past few weeks.  Sure, it wasn’t a big change, but it was a start.
         Bosslady continued to look me up and down as if I’d crawled out of a gutter somewhere and she wasn’t sure how to get rid of the disgusting creature that had appeared in her office.  My smile withered and died under her gaze.  Bosslady is twice my age and has pushed out four kids, yet remains a size four.  My girth, and my accompanying lackadaisical attitude about it, puzzles her.
         She said something about not seeing any gap between jeans and skin, and I made a joke to change the subject and distract her from the topic of my physique.  She started giggling at me, as did the IT guy.
         “Jeez, way to kick a dog when it’s down,” I continued, making a kicking motion with my leg.  She was laughing too hard to talk at this point, which was the opportune moment to exit, stage right.
         “Okay, I’m just gonna go and throw up now,” I called back to them.
         “Yeah, right!”  She said, laughing.  “I’d like to see that!”
          I try not to let it get to me, all the office nonsense.  It’s standard procedure for anyone who works in this kind of environment, surrounded by women.  Size, weight, diet; these things dominate the conversations wherever herds of women go.  Most of the time, they don’t mean anything by it.  It’s helping, in their minds, so I don’t take offense to it.  Just make a joke, usually at my own expense, and change the subject.  Go down the hall to the bathroom when you’re certain no one else is around, stick your finger down your throat.  Never eat anything in front of them, especially from the vending machine-  Bosslady tends to keep track of how many visits I make to it.  Go home, look at yourself in the mirror in your underwear, hate yourself a little more.  Smoke another Marlboro, never let the tears fall down your face.