To Market, to Market, to Buy a Size 6

Dear Diary,

I've had a couple of upsetting interactions this week. First of all, I was talking to this woman at work (who is a middle-aged, overweight spinster who lives with her SISTER, by the way) and she was telling me about some other woman, and she said, "She is teeny-tiny. I mean tiny, like, smaller than YOU!" I'm not sure why this upset me. Maybe because having an overweight spinster tell you that someone is tinier than you is insulting. Like does she KNOW that I am struggling with my weight at the moment and am almost considering buying a size 6 jeans for the first time? How could she know that? Diary, I have never ever worn a size 6. I was OK bumping up from 2 to 4. I mean, OK, I could handle it when I crested 100 pounds. But that was like 4 years ago. If I go up a jean size every 4 years, I'll be a freaking size 10 by the time I hit 35. I might as well just die. (Did I mention that I was raised in a house with two anorexic older sisters? Sorry, Sisters A and B but seriously, eat a sandwich already. I'm tired of being the fat one here.) I blame my body dysmorphic disorder entirely on them.

Anyway, then today I was at the farmers market near my work. I am generally anti-farmers market (because of the slow, lumbering suburban fatties who seem to have no spatial awareness of their size and get in my way and make me heave and sigh and glare at everyone). But I go, because the BHE will be pissed if I don't come home every Thursday with fresh basil, crunchy french bread, and blackberries (he's not a homo, honest). So at the peach stand I look up to hand the dude my money and discover that he is a stone-cold hot hottie. So I smiled and said thank you, and he said, "You're welcome, ma'am."

Ma'am. This kid was probably like 17. I could eat 17 for breakfast. When did I turn into Mrs. Robinson? Or Mrs. Roper?

Is it the glasses?

Love, Fluffy