Are You Lookin' At Me?

Imagine being born with a growth on your forehead shaped like a plum. This plum is larger than usual, but the bloody purple is a spot on match. The growth is like those found on a Papua New Guinean kid Ray Martin and a filthy rich plastic surgeon will fly in and repair to equalise their karma. Imagine walking down the white halls of your local shopping centre, through the food court. Every head would turn, eye widen with shock/revolt, then socialisation would assert and they'd look away. A whole crowd, looking at you, suddenly averted to the air conditioning ducts in the ceiling. Only the kids would continue staring. They haven't yet learned what's polite. Some may even point and tug at Mommy's sleeve, get her to look, too.

If someone is looking at you, it'd be a safe assumption they're not thinking you've got a cute arse.

Now imagine after a whole childhood, teens and young adulthood -- your entire life so far -- with the awful blood plum bulge on your forehead. Then one day it's surgically removed. There's a scar, but when everything's healed, it's no worse than being stitched up after a bad bicycle head-plant accident.

Without the scar, when you visit the shopping centre heads don't turn as much. Little shit kids don't point at tug at Mommy anymore. But some people still turn and look at you. Mostly members of the opposite sex. How long do you think it would take you to alter your instinctive reaction to be flattered instead of shamed?

Fatness is a deformity you can't hide. There is nothing redeeming or excusable about it. And when I lost most of the weight I was still unsettled when anybody looked at me, even when they weren't thinking anything bad, or when the occasional female was possibly attracted. Dealing with the bar/club scene was especially excruciating -- but that's for another day.