The man who fat-shamed me at a grocery store in Irvine, California, bounced into the store, wearing his too-short shorts and a tank top that revealed his contoured abs. At a glance, he appeared as the epitome of a California stereotype: a health nut and yoga enthusiast, perfectly poised, with his nose a little too high in the air.
I don't fit in that stereotype. I am a plus-sized woman who spent the majority of my life in the Midwest. When I moved to California to start my life over as an adult, I was shocked by the options for Botox and contouring surgeries, the focus on organic foods, and the attentiveness toward fitness.
And yet, no person I met in California has ever treated me as less than or looked down upon me — at least not until this man showed his face in the grocery store.
I remember lighting up when I saw this man and greeting him with a huge smile. Honestly, he looked like some of the men I've dated — men who were delighted with my plus-sized body, many of whom declared a preference for someone shaped like me.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I greeted him. But I wasn't expecting him to say, "You don't need those," as I walked by holding my only grocery item — a package of bakery cookies.
It took me a minute to register what he said because I was so shocked. When the message registered, I looked back in horror — only to find him cocking his neck, intently staring back at me with a huge smirk. His piercing glance declared pride in having disseminated such a judgment.
I held it together long enough to walk across the parking lot to my car — a distance I purposely kept to get extra steps in. I asked a stranger to take a photo of me because I wanted to remember the moment when I became fearful, when I no longer felt safe to walk around as myself, and when California's humanity showed its face as the mean and vile place many people expect.
It was October 9th, 2020, at 3:28 p.m. — precisely three years, three months, and three days after I moved to California.