Full disclosure, I’m fat. Which means I don’t fit in. Sometimes it’s just a perception, but sometimes I literally mean: I do not fit.
Last weekend, I was sitting on the grass at the Mighty Hoopla festival in south London. Beside me was a fairground ride that swings you up in the air. Like the helpful, big fat friend that I am, I was watching everyone’s bags, because I’m self aware enough to know that I’m not going to fit into the seats; once you’ve done the walk of shame from a ride like this once, you’ve learnt your lesson.
There was no back and forth, no one expressed surprise and implored that I would fit. I was just left with the designer bags, clearly trusted by people who had only just met me. It made me think more fat women should get into grand larceny.
I know that to some people, this – being left alone surrounded by strangers’ bags – might feel triggering. Not me – I love a sit down. I made a joke in my most recent tour (Men, I Can Save You) that so many women are marching for their rights, but I prefer the ones who glue themselves to stuff. Get me an old T-shirt, I’m coming for a sit down, Greta.
Of course, my nonchalant attitude to not being able to fit in has come from years of hard-earned experience.
Source: Here