I try to engage her small talk, “so…cleaning teeth, pretty exciting. What got you into this line of work?” But there is no opportunity for her to respond, even if she’d wanted to. Thus, I continue along in my state of mortification. Though I justify skipping out on a real verbal apology, I know the comment hurt. She is a young woman. She does not exude confidence. It is likely that she will turn my comment over and over in her mind and it is likely that it will become sharper with each revolution. I hold this likelihood in my heart as I drive home totally and utterly humbled. Humility is bitter. I deserve this. I repent by offering prayers for her, prayers of a beautiful happening in her life that will offset the cruelty I’ve inflicted. I am ashamed of myself; I should know better.
For months afterwards I continue to feel terribly about the whole thing; my only salvation is the twisted humor of it. I share my story with my husband, who battles weight himself, and with my good friend who is not only hysterical, but who was once an over eater. We split our sides with the recount and she lends an insight I think I can live with. She says to me in her Long Island drawl, “Well, you were only telling the truth.” “I mean,” she emphatically continues, “What you said about your husband loving you no matter if you were three hundred pounds is true…regardless of the fact that there was a three hundred pound woman in the room.” So we leave it at that, I may be an ass, but at least I am a truthful ass.
PREVIOUS PAGE
