I've been pondering writing this particular post, because it's kind of stupid to write a public column about why some subjects should not be public. But it's Christmas, and as I'm working that Fake Local Celebrity mojo full time these days ("Yes, I'm Leslie! Thank you for reading my column!...Hey, where'd you get that mini quiche?") I'm aware of being a somewhat public person. I am not the public person that Oprah is, because in terms of being public and universally known, I think it's like Jesus, Oprah and Mickey Mouse.
But in my own Grade-Z local way, I found myself wanting to give Oprah an empathetic hug when I read about her public admission of her weight gain, and of the flurry of pictures of her thinner times posted right next to her current heavier one. And make no mistake — that woman is gorgeous, no matter what she weighs, and even at 200 pounds, I suspect a lot of that is muscle, since she is an athlete and a marathoner. Go marathoners.
I obviously am not as recognizable as the O, but since 2002, I've had my face in the Palm Beach Post every week, as well as a lot of TV appearances, billboards, commercials and other promotional lalala. And I know what it's like to have your weight scrutinized by strangers, mostly because they don't think of me as a stranger. But I don't know them, so it's disconcerting when someone I've never seen before tells me I'm fat. That stuff is rude, y'all. What the hell is wrong with you? I don't even take that mess off my grandfather, so if it gets Grandaddy the stink eye, thus it is with you, Dude. Yet, I can't cuss these people out because I'm a lovable yet sassy local celebrity, and the Palm Beach Post is trying to retain readers, not lose them to lawsuits.
I became aware this year just how long six years, and as many corresponding weights, that is. When I first moved to town, I went on a crazy, non-recommended diet that took 30 pounds off me, stripped my hips, face and cleavage, and made me look like a hungry boy. Of course, that's when I took a whole heck of a lot of promotional photos for the Post, giving the mistaken impression that this is what I usually looked like or at least what I'd look like after I got tired of being lightheaded and started eating.
(My best friend Melanie once remarked "Size-6 Leslie was mean," to which I responded "Because Size-6 Leslie was hungry.")
I subsequently became a serious runner, became more muscular and also able to eat a whole lot because I was burning a gajillion calories a day. I was a substantial size 8-ish, and happy to be so. This continued until I injured myself last year, and went from an 8, to a 10, and then to a 12. Nothing wrong with that, except it took me a while to admit that. But the public didn't have that problem. We've already discussed, in an earlier post, the bisnatch of a former running acquaintance who asked "Are you still running?" looked at my gut and said, under her breath "Guess not." And then there's a family member who will remain nameless who, during my father's cancer surgery, looked at the plain veggie burger I was microwaving and said "You're eating again?"
But nothing compares to the brazenness of the seemingly nice older man who followed me into the CityPlace Starbucks last winter.
"Are you Leslie?" he asked, and I nodded that I was.
"My brother thought that was you, but I said 'Oh, no, that can't be Leslie. Leslie's a slim young lady!," he said, leaving the "And you are a big ol' heifer" unsaid and hanging in the latte-scented air.
As I struggled for a response that didn't involve cursing and punching, the man, still smiling, kept on talking.
"You should come to my Over-Eaters Anonymous meeting!" he said.
Yes, he did. No I'm not making that up.
I wanted to hit him, or tell him he was incredibly rude, or throw my skim whipped cream-less skinny skinny whatever thing in his face, but instead I thanked him for his concern but told him that I didn't need a meeting, just to recover from my injury, and that the pictures he'd seen of me were uncharacteristically skinny. Yes, I thanked him, like a punk. Thanked this horrible person. Because he wasn't really horrible - he was horribly inappropriate, but I know that people who survive things like chronic overeating (he'd lost like 80 pounds) are missionaries for their cause. They mean well. He was horrible. But he meant well.
Being in public, talking about my running or what I eat - all of that puts my weight in the public eye, as much as my columns put my singlehood and dating life in the public eye. Which means people believe they are up for discussion. I regret this sometimes, but it is what it is. That doesn't excuse rudeness, though. As my mother always says, there is seldom an excuse to be rude to people. Notice that "seldom" implies that there sometimes is an excuse. But telling someone who DOES NOT KNOW YOU that she is fat is not one of those times. Seriously.
All of this is to say that I will never have Oprah's money. But I feel her pain, in a local, broke sort of way. Maybe people will be able to learn from Oprah's honesty about her weight and her struggles, because she's that normal. I just wonder what she would say if somebody stepped to her at a Starbucks.
