Kathy joined Weight Watchers. Shut up. Because it apparently breaks some weight loss commandment to display even a scintilla of cynicism at meetings, Waisted is where she bitches about eating, not eating, oversharing weight watchers, and probably you.

By Kathy Cacace [Archives]

I have this thing for cut-offs. It gets a little warm and, bam, I want to sever the legs of every pair of pants I own. If I could go through the rest of my life bare-legged and futzing with thigh-high frayed hems, I’d be the world’s happiest girl. This spring has been exciting because none of my pants fit, which means I’ve been able to slice and dice my old, big jeans with abandon and wear the belted, slightly droopy results virtually every night I go out. That’s my party uniform: the one lucky gray t-shirt own that I don’t hate and doesn’t fall off, and one pair of shorts selected from the rotating cast of frayed denim guest stars.

For someone with a whole host of body issues, I have very little shame. Or class. I have worn denim cut-offs recently to house parties, people’s places of employment, restaurants, bars, dance parties, and very nearly (until I was able to remove a chocolate icing stain from my one pair of jeans) the Mother’s Day celebration I threw at my house. Whatever. I may have arms that make you crave Jello, and I may exhale fully only in the safety of my bedroom, but my legs (while blindingly, radiantly, ghostly, Polishly white) are pretty much in proportion and, come on, they’re freaking legs. Who cares?

Judging by a subway ride I took recently, EVERYONE.

Riding on the train very late the other night, a pack of fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds got on and hollered their way down the car to where I was sitting. Kids in packs are extraordinarily brave, which is why I assume the two lead boys were comfortable pointing at me and yelling, “She’s got some THICK ASS THIGHS!” as the train rolled to a halt in a station. The kids laughed, jumped out, and moved on to the next car full of big feet and large asses and crooked noses to inventory and call out like Homeroom attendance.

Seated across from me was a man I can only describe as a Very Large Thug. He was approximately seventeen feet tall and wearing sunglasses on the subway well past midnight, perhaps to keep the glint of his own gold teeth from reflecting in the window and damaging his retinas. He was wearing one of those embroidered leather jackets with yellow accents and matching, immaculate yellow sneakers. He was holding a sweat rag.

“Don’t even worry about that,” the Very Large Thug advised.

“Oh, I don’t care. They’re fetuses. They’re really the least of my problems,” I think I said.

“They’re too young to know what they’re talking about,” he continued. “In a few years, they’re going to LOVE those thick ass thighs.”

“Uh.”

“Nah, for real. They’ll get a few years older, learn some respect…then they’ll realize they LOVE some thick ass thighs.”

This was the point at which my brain became one of those scrolling LED boards that broadcasts messages, like, on the front of a bus, only mine read HOLY FUCK, CAN YOU STRANGERS PLEASE STOP SAYING “THICK ASS THIGHS” TO ME?

When you lose weight, you concentrate on such small things it’s difficult to get a whole picture of what you actually look like as a package. I can tell when I’ve lost or gained a tenth of a pound by the way my stomach looks, but I can no longer eyeball a shirt in a store for even a ballpark fit. I’ve barely got a grip on my own body, which to me is this alien lump of weird politics, so dealing with commentary about it from friends and strangers alike is surreal.

And, because I’m a girl, there’s that extra dollop of fat free whipped misogyny topping on the bullshit sundae. It’s always dudes who think they have the right to call out thick ass thighs on the subway, and, on the flip side, it’s only dudes who make that shitty, transparent judgment call and begin holding the elevator door for me now that I’m 35.2 pounds lighter than I was when they used to let it close on my foot.

And thus concludes the longest shut the fuck up in human history. Dudes, bitches, douchebags, assholes, perverts, weirdos, and even well-intentioned idiots: keep your comments to stupid yourself. It’s warm out, I’ve got shorts in my bag, and I don’t have time for an identity crisis this afternoon.