Two hundred and fifty pounds. This is what I believe to be the most precarious weight in America today. No, not because it surpasses overweight or obese by any height/weight comparison chart but because it seems to be the weight where your general sense of reality is forfeited and an undeniable truth is plainly placed before you. Before you reach this benchmark, your reality is naively intertwined with those of your underweight and average peers. Suddenly, it seems that those things which were accessible are no longer quite so within your grasp. Yet, instead of being denied those chocolate flavored cookies from the vending machine, you are denied access from a roller coaster. But not before you are humiliated as the ride operators feverishly yet futiley try to fit you in. “I don’t think they tried hard enough.” Your significant other coos as they return from their own thirty second thrill. “I am sure the next ride will be fine” The bit of uncertainty with which that they announce that phrase is enough to pollute the jury within your mind with significant doubt. There will no trial, you are guilty of being ridiculously fat. Being overweight, obese, chunky, fluffy, or whatever adjective you use to cover the fact that you may or may not take up two seats on the transit authority bus, it means that you expect to be denied by general society as a nicotine addict expects to be forced to smoke outdoors. Once you reach two-hundred and fifty pounds at five three, there is no viable excuse for your appearance. No matter how “great” your personality or how many interesting “interests” you think you have on HotorNot.com or whatever picture rating site you absentmindedly joined under unrealistic pretenses, you will not get a 10.0 or a smiley face. At two-hundred and fifty pounds, it is no longer necessary to question your own eating habits. People will do it for you. “Should you really be eating that, dear?” Your significant other gently asks as you begin to stuff your face with apple pie. “I thought you said you were full.” What they imply is a believable amount of uncertainty on their behalf that you may or may not be eating yourself to death.. At two-hundred and fifty pounds, there is no uncertainty. There are only facts. There is only frustration, hatred and that nagging little question of “are you going to eat that?”
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