Skinny in the Land of Giants

The stigma of being skinny follows the Thin Crowd like ghostly shadow. It is a terrible burden to bear.

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We live in a land of behemoths. My 160 pounds clearly qualifies me for minority status. Yet I am not alone. Arise, O Army of Scarecrows, and unite.

I was born skinny. I was so thin at birth they mistook me for a skeleton. They wrapped me in a shroud for swaddling clothes. My mother even lost weight during pregnancy. Nurses asked if I were nine months premature. I have remained virtually invisible ever since.

Americans are enormous specimens these days. Look around: forearms the size of tires, legs like logs and trunks like Corinthian columns. The earth shakes when America walks. Steroids, HGH and hash browns work wonders. People pay attention.

Skinny folks go unnoticed. We evaporate into crowds. Without noses and feet we’d have no profile whatsoever. Our spindly arms dangle from the sleeves of Polos like strings of spaghetti. Our clothes detest us. Our suits look like they want to crawl off of our bodies. Our legs are vestigial reminders of another era.

The emaciated among us endure hard lives and much derision. Many are the perils of being skeletal. Scales mock us. We stare at them in horror while they seek to register each precious ounce of ever-dwindling body mass.

We’re afraid of scales. One day in the food store I popped a quarter in one of the standup scales. It laughed and gave me back change. Scales have no respect of persons.

Skinny people have colossal appetites. Our metabolism is a raging blast furnace. We eat relentlessly. We burn through our bank accounts supporting our habit. We consume vast quantities of carbs. Calories ooze from our pores.

Our hunger is rapacious. It’s a ravenous beast that claws our bellies like shards of broken glass. Our stomachs think our throats have been cut. Without us, the potato futures market would collapse.

We survive on snacks. We’re on a first-name basis at Dairy Queen. We have reserved seating in all yogurt shops. We are singly responsible for the profits of all Dunkin’ Donuts. We’re addicted to peach milkshakes. Even Ben and Jerry’s consult us. We’re enslaved by ice cream.

Our compulsive cravings hold us hostage. We’re shunned from party guest lists with buffets. Restaurants featuring all-you-can-eat buffets have time-limit signs for skinny folks. Our passion for protein has made us social pariahs.

The last invitation I received contained a PS: “Eat at home before coming or brown-bag it.” They obviously recall my last visit, the time when I slipped out the side door with their fruit bowl. After devouring three apples, I discovered the fruit was plastic. I’m still recovering.

We’re undernourished scavengers who swarm the natural health food stores, stocking up on whey supplements and elixirs that promise to flesh out our shrunken frames. Look at our faces. Are we smiling? Do we look healthy? No. We’re walking cadavers. Black hearses wait outside these stores like buzzards preparing for meals.

We bone-bags love to jog. No one can explain why this is. Normal people don’t have these compulsions. Have you ever seen a happy runner? They don’t exist. We’re not happy people. We’re tormented. We run to escape our wretched condition. Ambulances follow us in the distance, certain of the inevitable.

We don’t diet. We salivate over recipe books. No food is off-limits, unless it’s green. No lettuce, no veggies. Just red meat, bread and beer. Sugar is the staple, butter is the backup and cheese is the crown. Add eggs, white flour and a lot of Crisco to everything. It’s our primordial curse.

Life is boring beyond belief. It’s like living in a desert, a desolate existence in a world where nothing ever changes…same waist size, same weight, same clothes, same everything. Think about always having to hear, “My, you look the same. Are you ill?” Depressing.

The worst thing about being skinny is esthetic…wrinkles. The skin on our bodies sags and then finally collapses. No escape. Avon come calling daily with its lotion van. We grease up like Yankees sizzling on South Beach. Nothing works. We’re not pretty people. Even Wal Mart refuses us entry.

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Many are the lamentations and affliction of skinny people. The Fates have dealt us a very strange hand indeed. What can be said?

We are the voices of many, crying in the wilderness of plenty; “More waffles, more waffles.” And we wouldn’t have it any other way.


Bud Hearn
May 4, 2018