Sometimes there’s a sort of character that I play called Sassy Pants Fat Girl. Don’t get me wrong, when I say character, I don’t mean in a play or on TV. Though I would be happy to oblige should the need arise (I’m lookin’ at you, Matthew Weiner). No, Sassy Pants Fat Girl is a version of myself that you can find at parties, county fairs, food festivals, and on Saturdays.
Things you might hear Sassy Pants Fat Girl Say:
“Alright, what’s good here? I mean, I’m gonna eat all of it, but I wanna know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Please, I had three of those sausage things immediately upon arrival.”
“I thought the cinnamon roll was much better than the milkshake, but my favorite thing was the blooming onion.”
You know Sassy Pants Fat Girl. She doesn’t care if she’s eating too much, she doesn’t care her pants won’t fit tomorrow, and she definitely doesn’t care what you think.
But the truth is, Sassy Pants Fat Girl does care about all of those things. Especially about what you think. That’s why she puts her sassy pants on. So that she can make you laugh and hopefully distract you from how uncomfortable she is in the moment.
For a while, I was able to reel Sassy Pants Fat Girl in and focus her efforts elsewhere. Pre-pregnancy, Sassy Pants Fat Girl morphed into Sassy Pants Bourbon-on-the-Rocks Girl who likes to sip bourbon while she swirls the ice cubes around in the glass and gives you a hard time about your stupid hipster mustache. But now that girl just stares wistfully at her friends with beer and picks at the spinach salad she has dutifully ordered and drinks so much water that she needs to pee 8 times before its time to go home (you’re welcome baby). Nowadays I’m having a harder time keeping Sassy Pants Fat Girl in check. Because there is a fine line between Sassy Pants Fat Girl and Sassy Pants Preggo. Both can easily justify eating more than they should and both can still sass-mouth you with the best of them. Except that I’m caring for another person now too…blah blah blah. That’s why I frequently end up with that stupid spinach salad.
On my best days, I am just Sassy Pants Jen. I don’t need the Fat Girl/Bourbon/Preggo modifier. I don’t need the basket of french fries, or the Manhattan on the rocks or even that spinach salad. I am just funny and wry and have a lot to say about that mustache. And what’s the difference? How do I allow myself to be just Jen? I don’t know. I’m probably just relaxed and didn’t hit any traffic that day and got a good walk in and haven’t been thinking so hard about it all.
That’s probably the secret to life in general, but I’m gonna need to think about it some more before I accept it to be true.