Tonight was supposed to be a team building/super fun times activity for the customer service team. We were gonna do go–karts around the Allstar Grand Prix in Sterling and it was gonna be awesome! Until it wasn’t. Like, right off the bat it wasn’t.
I was already bummed that it was tonight since the film 3 screenings at Towson are happening at the same time, but after weighing each weekend this month, this was the one thing I could afford to miss. So I voted for that day along with everyone else. The universe began to snicker.
Everyone has to wear a racing suit over their clothes for safety purposes. There is also a 250 lb weight limit, said a handy dandy sign at the front counter. The universe began to guffaw.
The first suit I knew immediately was not going to zip up at all. Every girl with flesh to spare knows right away when this is the case in dressing rooms around the world. It’s like how people with arthritis get achy before it rains. Call it fatuition. You just know.
I take it back to the girl at the front desk. “I can’t get this to zip up at all.”
“I’m sorry. That’s the biggest suit we have.” The universe began to roll around laughing.
“Here, try one of the taller ones.” Bless this front desk girl for trying. I took the taller suit, feeling shockingly pessimistic. The universe pauses to wipe a tear of laughter before resuming.
The second suit goes over the legs more easily. Foolishly, I began to feel hopeful. I struggle slightly less with the arms. I give the two front ends a cautious tug to see if they’ll meet comfortably in the middle. The universe is breathless with mirth at this point.
Everyone else is suited up and ready for the safety briefing. They are waiting for me at this point. Thankfully, they are pretending to not be waiting for me by talking amongst themselves.
I cannot get this zipper up one notch. It is stuck resolutely right where it begins. “I will not budge for you, O portly one,” says the zipper. “This is what you get for eating at both Chipotle and Chick–fil–A in the space of four hours. Are you proud?”
I am not. The universe had not had its due just yet, but must excuse itself because the gales of laughter coming from it are uncontrollable and the galaxies are trying to have a finance meeting to prepare for the next fiscal millennia.
I take the suit off and take it to the front desk. “This one won’t zip up either,” I say, knowing exactly what comes next.
“Then you won’t be able to race. I’m sorry. We can’t let anyone drive without one.” To her credit, she is almost convincingly sympathetic.
“I understand. Thanks anyway.”
Some of my coworkers have heard this exchange. They throw some condolences my way and head to the safety briefing room. I wave them off with wishes of good fun and bond–strengthening. Sans one.
The mantra in my head was not a great one. “This is your fault. Can’t even blame the company for this one. Rules are rules. HAES is bullshit. You’re incredibly gross. You’re the worst. You lose. You get nothing. Good DAY, sir.” I hate fat–shaming and firmly believe that no one deserves to hate themselves because of how they look. Except for me. I also believe in body positivity, that everyone should love who they are in their own skin and your worth isn’t defined by a number on a scale. As long as you are healthy and take care of yourself, that’s where the real physical beauty lies, etc. etc. Unless you’re me. Number 1 worst hypocrite award winner 2015. It’s something I’m still working on and I’ve yet to be 100%. I’m trying for at least 63% consistently. In any case, maybe it’s time to check out the glorified Bowflex that constitutes the fitness center at my apartment complex.
Needless to say, I’m still feeling quite a mixed bag of emotions. Where to begin? Mortified is a good place to start. Morose because had I been psychic and known this would happen in advanced, skipped out and gone to the film 3 screenings. Some other M word because alliteration is cool. Relieved that Sean didn’t come with me (it was a +1 event) and I only had to be embarrassed in front of my whole team and not my whole team plus the one person I’m willing to let them see me naked exclusively and on a semi–regular basis. Oh, and since the company paid for it, I didn’t lose any money. The t–shirt I got this morning that one of my coworkers designed for the event is nice, too.
And it fits without needing a zipper.