It’s official: I’ve been called “dumpy.”
Yeah, the guy was joking when he said it, and I tried to play it off like I really believed he was just horsing around, but, honey, I went to a liberal arts college, and you know what that means: Sociology 101.
Joking relationships are notable for the way in which they allow each member of the relationship to “let off steam.” Each may attack the other under the guise of play, thereby expressing true feelings–at least in part–in a non-confrontational manner.
In sum, the guy meant I was dumpy.
Now, I maintain that I have never had a particularly fat-free body. Even at my skinniest, I wasn’t skinny…and that’s fine, I’m comfortable with that. I’m comfortable with the fact that I’m, uh, fleshy.
“Dumpy,” though. The connotations run beyond the mere fact of pant size. The implication is that I’m 10 pounds overweight and I dress like a midwife. And I’m intellectually lazy. And my hair…well, there’s all kinds of implications about my hair. Some of them are based in fact, others on rumor alone.
So I ask you: at this point in my life–when, according to the latest scientific evidence, I have already frittered away some 40% of my available days (give or take a percentage point)–am I ready to throw up my hands, put my PVC in mothballs, and slouch toward the racks of madras shorts in Wal-Mart’s men’s department?
Not without a fight.
Chunky? Yes. Fat? Whatever. Dumpy? Not yet, Mary.
sturtle [dot] com 