Summer

Swimsuit season. Heat waves. Shorts. The obligatory "weight loss" season. None of these words or phrases sing anything but death to the fat girl. And I don't mean a literal, dramatic, tear-filled death. I mean the metaphorical, soul-munching, crippling death that leaves you wanting to lie face up in your bed wearing nothing but your underwear, with the fan on high, just dying for a bite of some fresh, cool ice cream, but not wanting to get your huge ass up to get some. Of course during this time you're also looking down at your stomach, wishing it away, pining for it to just slide off like the third scoop of ice cream from the waffle cone you're dreaming about.

The worst death of them all.

Fat girls hate the summer. And it really does make sense when you think about it. All of your friends want to go lie out by the pool, sipping margaritas and eye-raping the man candy that walks by. But all you can think about is how the swimsuit skirt that covered you so well in the bathroom mirror this morning has magically shrunk in full view of the public.

When a skinny girl slinks into the water, she looks graceful and as she kicks off in a perfect breaststroke jaws drop and hearts flutter. When Fat Girl hauls her ass to the side of the pool and hops on in, you better BELIEVE that every single person is mumbling the word Shamu under their breath. Or maybe out loud. I know I yell it out when I see one of my kind flopping around like a walrus.

I'm a terrible fat girl. A treacherous snake to my kind...

But water is not the only elemental threat to the fat girl's happiness in the mid-year. Fire (more generally speaking, heat) always comes to vanquish the last remnants of happiness that the fat girl holds dear.

We've already covered the whole issue of fat girls sweating constantly, but I want to reiterate the magnitude of the situation in this little postlette. Fat girls are ALWAYS hot. Always. Time, place, climate, altitude, temperment, they always be sweatin' it. So clearly summer just makes it worse.

Luckily I live in Arizona, and I'm relatively free from humidity and the greasy mess it turns me into. HOWEVER there is no escaping that in 124 degree temperatures, I'm lookin' fierce. And not in the good way, like Beyonce. I'm lookin' Mama Cass, pre-ham sandwich fierce. Sometimes even post. It gets real.

There is also the issue of shorts. It's pretty much mandatory in any casual situation that you put on some booty shorts and get to workin' it. But for the Heffa' it's a nightmare. Most chub-o's are pretty self conscious about their legs. Except for those of you shaped like apples, with tiny little chicken legs that are delicate and pretty. Us bottom heavy (or just all over heavy) girls hate you, stupid tramps. Go on with your anklets, I'll be here with my cankles, wishing evil upon you and generations of your offspring.

That's why the good lord invented burmuda shorts. They go the knee, they cover the more disgusting looking parts of your thighs and they almost look like you made an intentional purchase as a fashion statement. Boom.

But since everybody got this memo, all they freaking make in a size 16 and above are burmuda shorts! (Or straight up booty shorts, which are just rude.) God forbid I want regular length shorts! Bleh. Blehblehbleh.

But everybody makes a resolution every year that "this summer I'm going to start working out. I'm going to eat salad and I'm going to buy a shakeweight and play with that phallic little badboy until my arms are Michelle Obama hard."

It never happens. And of course you've told all of your coworkers and friends that you're going to actually do it this year, and then September rolls around and you're still bustin' out of your jeans... So you're judged. Not only by them. But by yourself... and by God.

Alright, God doesn't really care. But you feel like he does. The shame...

Moral of the story: Fat Girls hate summer because it exploits every negative aspect of their lives.