Corporate Peon: Dear _____,

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Dear _____,

I know you think you're fat. You know how I know? You tell me. Almost daily. You grab your rolls and you complain that none of your clothes fit and that you had to buy pants a size bigger than you were wearing just so you could breathe and you tell me what you ate over the weekend.

I get it. I never quite know what to say when you begin, but more often than I'm comfortable with, I start to share my own tales. Not that I'd ever grab my rolls in front of someone else, but whatever. We've both struggled with our weight for, like, ever, so I really do get it.

You've said, more than once, that you want my help now that I'm sitting by you. I'm happy to help. I don't know what kind of help you want, so you should let me know what you mean by that, but within reason, I'm ready and willing to assist.

Just... stop equating sweets to a lifetime in purgatory.

Go, eat a candy bar. It's a choice. You won't go to hell for it. Go, eat baked goods. Still no hell. Go, grab another candy bar from the convenience store. Look, no hell yet. But stop with the 'I'm so bad' comments. If you want me to verbally flog you for it, I won't, so please think of other ways I can help.

And if you're not willing to work at it, that's fine too. Really. There are a lot worse things you can be than overweight. It doesn't mean you're a bad person and it doesn't mean you're a horrible lazy slacker. (Well, to some it might mean the second. But not to me, if that helps.)

Just...make up your mind, will you?

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