Fat Kid Series--part 1

This is the first installment in my 'Fat Kid Series'. I think it's important to come to terms with, laugh at, and prevail over a once humiliating time. Former fatties, you know what I'm talkin' about! Many of you know these stories, but for those who don't I hope you enjoy and I encourage you to openly laugh at and mock my former woes.

Second grade dime.

Lunch is a favorite time for any second grader. For a fat second grader however, lunch time is more than just a favorite part of the school day; it is what you live for, dream about, its what your chubby bones work for.
Lunch time has a specific smell. Maybe it’s the smell of government subsidized meals, maybe it’s the smell of freedom and anticipation; who knows for sure. For me, it was the smell of gloriousness and this day was no different. The smells were as ripe as ever and my spirits soared.
The halls of Hebron Avenue Elementary School were congested with lines of students following their teachers, and the air was punctuated with the mumbled roar of every K-5 kid on their way to lunch. Mr. Schoen navigated our class fearlessly through this jungle of animals eagerly thumping towards their sustenance. Every man for himself, which, as a second grader, I always found awkwardly intimidating. I made my way though. My stout legs, packed full into their denim encasement, worked vigorously to keep up with the class. I always found it much easier to work this fervently when I knew there was a generous reward awaiting me.
We finally reached the cafeteria, or the “all purpose room” if you will. The irony of this room was amazing. The place that fatties were able to relax and gorge themselves with sandwich meat and French bread pizza, was the same room they were ridiculed and silently laughed at for not being able to climb the rope or do a pull up. At lunch time though, the echoes of competitive disapproval and insecurities were now replaced with those of mindless conversation and banter.
The class divided up, half going straight to the table to unwrap their brown paper bags containing a myriad of tastes, the other half forming the line. The endless line that somehow always lead you to your $1.50 prize. The lunch line was the earliest form of blue balls. You were always so close, but never quite there. Any sort of conversation I had in the lunch line was a half-assed contribution on my part. How could I hold a cohesive conversation when my thoughts were in one place and one place only.
The line was moving quickly that day. Quicker than normal. The lunch lady working the register was now in sight and only a handful of people away from me. It was time to get my money. I impatiently stuck my portly hand into the tight slit that was my pocket. After tussling around I pulled out the crumpled up dollar and change and began to count. “A dollar twenty-five. A dollar thirty. A dollar forty…hmm I‘m missing a dime.” No big deal I thought. I knew I had enough money. I counted again, “ A dollar twenty-five. A dollar thirty. A dollar forty…“ I squeezed my hand back into my pocket and began to search the constricted quarters. I knew that dime was hiding somewhere; somewhere deep, in a crevace inaccessible to my pudgy fingers. Damn these pants. Damn my fat. Damn the dime! I was now 2 people away from the register. I wouldn’t give up. Franticly trying to search the two-square inch pocket, I began to panic. The sweat forming on my hand did not help the friction between my skin and the cotton lining of my pocket. One person away from having to pay, I took an action unknown to me. I left the lunch line.
My soul sank. Embarrassed, ashamed and confused, I fought back the tears. I went to sit down justifying my lack of lunch with trite, unbelievable statements such as “I’m not hungry.” or “I don’t feel good.” Maybe I hid out in the nurses office, I don’t really remember. It was a tragic day to say the least, one that would not be forgotten.
I needed to make a change in my life. Conform my ways as to avoid any mortification of this sort again. I needed to regain my dignity and start with a fresh foot forward. Every young fat boy comes to the realization when he knows its time to make the change. This was my moment. From that day forward, every waking moment was spent wearing sweatpants. That’s right, no more skin-tight, body-hugging, unbreathable denim jeans. From then on I wore nothing but stretchy, pocket-less pants with an elastic-stretch waistband. I carried my lunch money in the security of a plastic baggy which I stored in the spacious lodgings of my backpack.
I continued to wear the stylish styles of Hanes sweatpants (sometimes accompanied by the matching sweatshirt by the way) until the kids at my sixth grade bus stop started making fun of me and asking why I wore sweat pants every day. Ten cents cost me 5 years of ignoring the current fashion trends and adding to my self-conscious feelings. But you may ask, if I could do it all over again, would I change a thing? And the answer is Yes. Yes I would.