When you go to the toilet during an important meeting, you have to hurry. There was one time that I failed to do that. I blame the burrito I had for breakfast.
It was technically lunch because the meeting happened at lunchtime, but I had not had breakfast, so the spicy meat roll was the first thing I ate that day and, to be honest with you, my stomach hated me for it. Usually I have quite a good relationship with my stomach. I cuddle it and tell it that it is pretty and it digests the food I eat like a champ. But every once in a while, when I make a decision such as filling it with carbs, meat and chilli first thing in the morning, it will look at me and shrug as if to say: I gotta do what I gotta do. You’re on your own here.
So I had to excuse myself from the table and run to the bathroom.
The toilet was placed in a very narrow alcove, with just enough room for backing in, sitting down and doing what needed to be done. Usually, when I go to a public bathroom, one butt cheek will be resting on a sanitary bin. In this particular toilet, there was not even room for a sanitary bin. It was wall – toilet – wall. And the wall was so close to the toilet, I pretty much had to squeeze myself in there. I allowed my body to punish me for a few minutes. I apologise for giving you this information but at the same time, if this in any way offends you, I need you to calm down. We all do it. Literally all of us. Animals too. Even fish poo. And the Queen. Fish and the Queen poo. My queenfn1 and your queen. All the queens. Including me. Your queen 2.0.
When I was finished, I realised that there was not enough room to reach my fat hands down between my fat thighs. I could not wipe. I began to understand why people want thigh gaps. Maybe they just enjoy being able to wipe themselves clean in public toilets. I can respect that. At this moment, I was, as they say, fucked. I tried reaching behind me, but my arms are too short – or maybe my butt is too big. It could easily be both. I tried everything. Eventually, I was doing improvised acrobatics with toilet paper in one hand and my trousers down around my ankles. I smashed my elbows, head and knees into the cubicle walls, as I was trying to get enough room to reach my own bum. To the people in the other stalls, this must have sounded like someone trying to wrestle cattle.
At this point, a good ten or twelve minutes had passed. A producer was sitting nearby putting two and two together. Maybe that burrito was her breakfast, he would think to himself. Do I want to work with someone who eats spicy food for breakfast? Do I want to work with someone with explosive diarrhoea?
I eventually managed to find a position that worked for me. When I went back into the restaurant, I noticed how many fat people were eating their food. I wanted to shout at them. ‘Don’t go to the bathroom! It’s a trap! Bring a hose or a really (really!) close friend who’s not too fussy.’
I have friends larger than me who told me that they have been in situations where they just had to not wipe. That is a sentence that is about as beautiful as the sentiment. Sure, there were alternatives. The fat people could just have stayed at home. Cancelled on their best friend’s birthday party. Not consumed food or liquid for the three days leading up to the event. Or, you know, the establishment could just have bathrooms that were slightly larger.
Whether or not fat people should accommodate ourselves to the world or the world should accommodate us is, unfortunately, up for discussion. I think my stance on this is fairly obvious. So, as we are discussing public space and existing as a fat person in that public space, I am going to talk from the position of someone believing that a world that is inclusive to everyone is a better world than one that is not.
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Yes, it’s a plane, which sucks: I really had hoped it was Superman
About a year ago, a friend of mine booked plane tickets for her and her boyfriend and I to go to Berlin. We’re a little group of friends out of which I am the only fat person. We were going to spend two days in Berlin, my favourite city, and we were all quite excited. I asked her to please book me a window seat, because I have anxiety.
See, I am scared of people. Every aspect of meeting a person terrifies me. From saying hello to them and not knowing if you should shake their hand, hug them, give them a high-five or just a cool-guy nod to finding a seat in a restaurant.fn2 Allow me to say this now: I need a corner seat. If I sit in the middle of the room, it feels like my chair is balancing on a mountain ledge and every moment can lead to my death. A waiter walking behind me will send my heart into my throat in an instant.
On public transportation, I need the window seat. Otherwise I will constantly be clutching my bag or my hands, my pulse in a frenzy, anticipating when the person next to me will get up – or when someone is going to walk past me in the aisle and bump my shoulder, in which case, I will definitely die, and that will hurt.
This gets worse on planes, because you might not know this, but planes are actually the size of those little plastic toy planes you can buy at the airport to give to your child as an apology for travelling too much and never being around. Planes are so tiny that they have to hire actual ants as members of staff. They may look like real-life, life-sized people, but actually, they are ants. Look closer the next time you are on a plane. Try holding out a crumb and you will see them fight the urge to all carry it to their queen, who I assume is the pilot.
I prefer to be in the window seat, so I can get on the plane first and find my seat and only be a nuisance to the person next to me. I know that other fat people prefer the aisle seat, because then they can spill over into the aisle and get up every once in a while when the pain from the armrest gets too much. Each fat person to their own.
There is a group on Facebook called ‘Flying While Fat’, created by fat activist and illustrator Stacy Bias, in which fat people compare notes on planes. It is quite practical. Someone will upload a full-body photo of themselves and say which flight they are taking, accompanied by ‘Will I fit in my seat? Any tips?’
Then a whole bunch of lovely people will share their advice. Such as: You will need an extension belt. The armrest close to the window goes up, so get a window seat. Or book two seats. Or contact the company ahead of time and ask for a spare seat next to you. Or do not expect to eat on the plane as the table will not be able to go down. Or, this plane actually has an accessible toilet, you just have to ask to use it.
It is very useful. I highly recommend it. Most people share the same fear. Fear of being ridiculed, of being thrown off the plane, of sitting next to someone who is going to take their photo or tweet about it or sigh loudly or complain to the flight attendant. All things that happen to loads of fat people all the time. People have a nasty tendency to blame you for the plane being too small. Plane seats are getting increasingly smaller. Thirty years ago, the average width of a plane seat would be 19–20 inches. Now it’s down to 16–17 inches.1 All in order for airlines to fit more passengers onboard and thus make (more) money. Some airlines in the USA have got a COS policy – a Customer of Size policy – where fat people can get two plane seats, free of charge. They seem to still be in business despite being accommodating to fat people. A lot of us would just be satisfied if it was possible to lift up the armrest by the window. That would easily lend us another couple of inches. If we were to play by the rules of capitalism, perhaps the plane could have a few wider seats that would cost a bit more money, to make up for the difference. I am simply desperate to have the option here.
I try to get on the plane first. I find my window seat – which I always try to reserve near the front, so that I do not have to squeeze past too many sighing people either throwing themselves dramatically into the middle seat as if they are afraid that I am going to dislocate their shoulder or people who absolutely refuse to move so I have to mutter, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry’ as my butt or stomach slaps into them. I get into the window seat as quickly as possible – quickly check if I need an extension, if I have not brought my own.fn3 I press myself up against the window, force the armrest down, check if the table goes down (it does not) and lodge my knees into the back of the seat in front of me. I then prepare for what will feel like forever in constant pain.fn4
I once spent eleven hours on a plane from South Africa with literally every joint in my body aching. The armrest was pressing itself into my skin so hard that it stopped my bloodstream to my legs. I tried lifting it slightly, but my very thin seat-neighbour kept pressing it down, into my flesh. Twice she went to the bathroom and both times I desperately lifted the armrest all the way up and let myself spill into her seat. I remember crying with relief at feeling the blood back in my legs, at my shoulders opening up instead of keeping me crouched together in a classic ‘I am sorry I am fat and existing’ pose, at my inner thigh muscles relaxing because I no longer had to hold them together so they wouldn’t touch her thin, white, probably naturally hairless legs. My seatmate came back and I had to grab all my fat and let myself back into a partly self-made cage for the remaining seven hours of the flight. I was in so much pain that I decided to never fly again.
Another time, I sat next to a very fat man on a plane. That was equally crammed. This was a twelve-hour flight to Australia and I was squeezed into the window seat. He was overflowing into my seat and our bodies were touching so much that I almost lost my virginity. I didn’t, though, and to this day I remain a good Christian.fn5 We were both almost twice as big as our seats. It was physically uncomfortable, sure, but at the same time, I was relieved. And I would sit next to him any day rather than someone thin. I will explain.
I cannot make assumptions about what strangers sitting next to me think about me – but hey, I will give it a pretty good shot. Fatphobia is a thing, I hope we have established that by now. The person sitting next to me on a plane could have been raised in a jungle by kangaroos or something, but knowing this world and this society, there is probably a kangaroo version of SlimFast with billboards everywhere featuring kangaroos drinking powder whilst faking smiles. So I do not trust the person sitting next to me on the plane to not also have been brainwashed into thinking that fat people are less worthy than others.
Because I have never read any think piece or article or tweet or blog post where someone complained about sitting next to a muscly man. And I have been that person and can I just point out: muscly people hurt. Muscles are hard. It’s the prize you win by working out a lot: if a bus hits you, the bus gets hurt. At least fat is soft and squishy. I am not saying that one is necessarily better than the other, all I am saying is: people prefer different hardness of the mattress they sleep on is all.
Because listen, it might be annoying sitting next to us on planes, but did you ever consider what it’s like having to sit next to someone who hates you?
I would rather sit next to a fellow fatty than a judgemental thin person.fn6 So I sat there on the plane to Australia, slowly losing feeling in my arms and legs, but I was content. For at least he did not have to sit next to someone loudly sighing and rolling their eyes. Like the business man who sat next to me on a plane to Denmark and poked me in the ribs with his elbow, probably believing that he was making some sort of point. As if I was capable of saying, ‘Oh, you know what, you are right, I am way too big, let me just do some quick push-ups and lose some weight and you can spend the rest of the flight less uncomfortable. Oh no, that’s right, you are still flying economy on a low budget airplane, so you will never be fully comfortable. On top of which you are also a spiteful human being with the need to make other people feel bad, so now that I think of it, you will never feel comfortable. At least I can get off this plane, whereas you cannot get off your shitty personality. Goodbye, sir.’fn7
My two friends and I got on the plane to Berlin. We had the first row. The ones where the seats are divided by a hard wall instead of liftable armrests. I managed to squeeze myself into it all right. The seatbelt was way too short so I casually asked for the extension. I have reached a point where I am not ashamed of asking. I genuinely feel like they should be ashamed for their seatbelts being too short. Asking for an extension now feels like saying, ‘Bad plane, bad!’ but unfortunately the flight attendants rarely feel the same. I am used to being met with slightly wide eyes and a worried wrinkle in their foreheads. Severely lowered voices that whisper ‘of course’, as they hand you the extension with shaky hands. Like a scared nurse in a hospital TV drama where the handsome doctor is about to perform surgery that has not been authorised.
‘But Doctor—’
‘I said: SCALPEL.’
‘He could die!’
‘He is going to die if I don’t make the incision. Now, SCALPEL.’
On this particular flight, the flight attendant looked more nervous than usual. She squatted in front of me and whispered, ‘You are in an emergency exit row, so you can’t have the extension. I have to move you.’
Just for a brief second, time stood still. Then I took a breath and said, ‘Okay, where do I go?’ and got up. There was a full empty row a few seats back. Once a month I have a nightmare where the plane is full and I have to get off the plane. It happens. It has happened before. It is part of the package deal called ‘Being Fat on a Plane’. You might not get to fly.
My friends were visibly shocked. And understandably, they felt bad for me. They tried complaining to the staff. I just wanted everyone to be quiet. Please do not make this a thing.
I am so used to travelling alone – and constantly adjusting my plans to my body. Getting that specific seat on the plane, turning up early, doing my regular checks once I am on board, that it now all happens automatically.
I barely notice that constant fight to force myself into a world that is not accommodating towards me.
All of this was a shock to my friends. To them, a fat person being moved to another seat because they are too fat, was not a given. Not something to almost be expected. They did not even have to say anything – their nervous, frustrated and sad energy took up the entire plane. I was desperately smiling – the way you smile to a toddler when it falls down to convince it that everything is fine and nothing hurts. Only my eyes were filling with tears which I didn’t want them to see. I didn’t feel humiliated or ashamed. At all. Bad plane, bad, bad plane. I felt incredibly guilty that my two innocent best friends had to see how my world looks. I wanted them to keep living in their world – a world in which people are allowed to exist and travel the way they please.
This all happened a year ago. As I am writing this, I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am now too fat to fly in a single seat in economy. This culminated when I found myself stranded in Australia, with the knowledge that there was no way I could go home with the ticket I possessed. The trip to Australia had been so painful that I had been unable to walk or sleep for days after, due to my aching back and bruised legs.
Only a few days afterwards, I was unable to fit into a seat in a theatre and I was placed on a regular chair without an armrest, next to a row of seats, towering over everyone else, looking like a lifeguard ready to save some lives if the comedy show ever became too funny.
I realised: I am now too fat for the world.
And I was stuck in Australia. After calling various airlines trying to find a solution, I had to cave in and order a Business Class flight home, emptying my account in the process. I am lucky to have had the amount ready. I am lucky that it did not completely debilitate me. I know many other people who would have had no choice but to either risk being thrown off the plane or who would simply have had to live in Australia forever.fn8
Getting too fat for the world was not something I had anticipated. I did not know that I was growing. I do not weigh myself and I do not measure anything. I do not focus on my size when I look in the mirror. When it happened, I was momentarily frozen.
Then an unexpected wave of relief overcame me. Alongside the intense sadness that there were now entire spaces I could not fit into and trips I could no longer afford to go on, that I would find it increasingly harder to find clothes, that the abuse would get worse, that my chances of a career would decrease, that there would probably soon come a time where I would have to just not wipe, that there would be shows I couldn’t attend – but all these things were just worse versions of something I was used to. What surprised me, was the relief. That I would no longer be in extreme pain when I do travel or go to the theatre. I am now forced to ask for a chair without armrests, go Business Class or book two seats on a plane. After years of being too fat but not fat enough to be comfortable, I felt like I had been released from a prison and I could finally breathe.
My body has made the decision for me: I am no longer capable of being uncomfortable. Uncomfortable is now too small for me. I am forced to be comfortable. Something I never felt like I deserved.
Finally.