I lost quite a lot of weight a few years ago.
I was round at a friend’s house for tea. She was busy in the kitchen, when the doorbell went. It was a good friend of hers—someone I’d met before but hadn’t seen in a number of years—and he greeted me with some surprise.
Friend-of-Friend: “You’ve lost weight!”
Me: “Yes, I’ve lost weight.”
F-o-F: “You’ve lost a lot of weight!”
Me: “Yes, I’ve lost a lot of weight.”
F-o-F: “Your husband must love that!”
I was totally thrown by that last sentence; in my world, love isn’t measured or contained by body size. My shape has indeed changed over the years, and it will change again, and it’s no measure of my worth.
Then, there was the insinuation that he used to find me unattractive, but now thought my appearance was acceptable; this troubled me. Why was this guy—who I barely knew—assuming that my relationship and my body were any of his damn business?
I wish I’d picked him up on it.
In a parallel universe, I’d have launched into an eloquent speech explaining all the above. Occasionally, I enjoy imaging myself simply shouting “OH FUCK OFF” as I slam the door in his face.
For the record, I was too flustered to think of a suitable comeback and instead stammered out a factually accurate but deeply unsatisfying reply:
Me: “I’ve no idea what my husband thinks about it. We split up a few months ago.”
The ensuing silence was immense, awkward and well-deserved.