Soapbox

That’s what I got called while I was running to catch a cab in Barcelona.

(My friend says they could have been saying it to her, too. But it’s doubtful.)

It was my first night on this trip (which I shall write about soon). We were having a wonderful time in Barcelona when we realized after 45 minutes of trying to get a cab back to our hotel that ALL of them were occupied. Calling cab companies became fruitless because our broken Spanish didn’t help. We walked for blocks trying different roads. We looked at bus routes. We finally gave up for a bit and settled on sharing a cider. As any normal person should do in times of despair.

We explained our situation to the waiters and they were incredibly nice. They even called cab companies for us and it looked hopeful…until they explained there was a medical convention in town with 30,000 doctors. Good for my two single gal-pals, not so good for finding a cab. He told us walking was too far as our hotel was in a residential area (Barcelona is big, by the way) and the metro was closed. So, just as we were getting directions on which busses to take back, our waiter spotted an OPEN cab!

He went running without saying a word.

My friend saw what he was doing and sprinted after him. I grabbed our stuff and my other girlfriend went to pay the tab.

I took off huffing, throwing my camera in my bag mid-run.

I passed a table outside of about 10 men, eating, drinking, enjoying the night.

That’s when I heard it.

“…la gordita…”

I knew it meant chubby or fat. I knew in the tone it was said, it wasn’t a term of endearment.

I remember taking one more step in my run, asking myself, “How the HELL are you going to respond to this? Ignore it? Try to spout off broken Spanish?”

You have to put this in context. I had flown and traveled over 21 hours that day. I was tired. I was bummed we couldn’t find a cab. I was pissed these a-holes thought I didn’t understand what they had called me. I felt an obligation to stand up for all “las gorditas.” No one looks good mid-sprint! Especially after 21 hours of travel. Regardless, it’s totally shitty to say to someone.

So I did what any hot-blooded American would do.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Turned around with the precision of  a soldier on her heels, ready to stomp to attention. Looked at all of them in their eyes. Raised both of my hands up in the air.

And gave them the glorious one-finger salute.

There was an awkward pause. Then solid laughter and pointing from his friends at the jerk who said it.

I wasn’t laughing. It’s not funny.

But I definitely smirked as I turned around and walked back to our cab.

 

In a former life, I went bungee jumping.

Former life = when my boobs were small enough to only need a built-in bra in my tank top.

Oh man, those were the days.

I was in Vegas with a couple of my girlfriends in my early 20’s and each of us promised to do something “adventurous.” One got a tattoo of her name written in Mandarin. I often wonder if that actually does say her name. Then two of us went bungee jumping.

I vividly remember thinking I weighed too much to bungee jump. No, really. I was a fit girl, in her early 20’s who wasn’t wearing a bra for goodness sakes. I would love to be back there! But I was bigger than my tiny friends and for that I have a myriad of hang-ups about my weight. I decided to bungee jump anyway and forget the voice in my head telling me I was too big to do it.

Fun fact: Did you know you go up to bungee jump as a group and they do it one-by-one by weight? Yup. The heavier you are, the further down the line you are…and the longer you have to wait. I was third to last. So that was fun. And definitely didn’t play into the voice telling me that I was fat.

But you know what? I did it. I freakin’ did it.

There may or may not be video after the jump of me yelling to my girlfriends, “Did my boobs fall out?!” (They didn’t. I know you’re all heartbroken.)

The point is, I heard that stupid voice talk about my weight trying to shame me into not doing it…and I did it anyway.

As I pack for my trip to Spain and Portugal, nearly a decade later, that same voice comes back. Even in looking at tour excursions, some that may involve wearing a swimsuit AROUND STRANGERS, that same fear tells me to forget it.

I bought a dress recently (for $13!) that I thought would be perfect for Spain and Portugal and was super lightweight, which meant it took up very little room in my bag. But once I got home, I started having second thoughts.

“Is it too short? No, really. Do you think it’s too short?” I asked my husband that enough times that he just stopped answering. You know those cartoon characters that just blink when someone asks them the same question over and over? He sort of looked like that. I even texted my girlfriends who I’m meeting in Spain. “No! I love it! Not too short!”

So why am I second guessing it? Because it’s out of my realm. Out of my comfort zone. I don’t normally wear dresses that are “that” short. For gosh sakes, it shows my legs! And when I’m doing something different, fear strikes.

I don’t want this upcoming trip to be gripped in fear over my weight. Granted, I am going alone (to meet up with girlfriends) and I’ll be alone for an entire day and night in Portugal before I head back to the US. I don’t necessarily fear that. (Truth be told, I am a bit anxious about it, but heck I lived in London alone for a month longer than other interns because my company wanted to extend my stay. I can do a day!) If I can travel internationally alone, why would I let my weight hold me back from doing things once I’m there?

Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m not going to do that! I promise that if that voice pops up and tells me not to take a picture at a certain angle or not to go paddle boarding b/c I’ll be in a suit, I’m going to tell it to shut up. I will not let my negative weight-talk hold me back.

And I’m going to wear that damn dress.