Xenoadipophobia

xen·o·a·dip·o·pho·bi·a

[zen-oh-uh-deep-oh-foh-bee-uh]

I'm working on a new term, a phobia that is very real for me. Fear of fat strangers, or other people's fat. I may have mentioned this before. I am a weightist. I am impatient and intolerant of fatty-boom-batties.

Before I get this rant-train properly started, let me defend myself here: I'm not a complete bigot. I'm not talking about a few kilos overweight or a slightly higher BMI. I'm not talking about folks who are "bigger boned" (like most of the Dutch nation) and to be honest I'm jealous of woman who actually have hips. Yes, I've heard the arguments. I know there are genetic builds and medical conditions and in certain cultures, blah-blah-blah. Maybe I'd be of a different mindset if I wasn't built like a hungry waif. Maybe. But I'm talking about huffing-and-puffing to get up two steps. Not being able to walk or move comfortably, breaking into a sweat at the mere thought of slight physical exertion. Overweight to the point of threatening your very existence - but not letting that be a warning to your lifestyle, because isn't that what mobility scooters are for?

My xenoadipophobia is most active on public transport. Fatties get on a sort-of full compartment, look at option A (a normal sized adult male) or option B (me), and sit next to me because I don't take up as much room as option A. Urgh! Thank you, please do come and squash your flab up against my leg and shoulder. I know it is physically impossible to push your legs any closer together, but I'm still going to pull up my nose. Because your foreign fat is now touching me. Ew. And you're sweating. So let's add another sense to that revulsion. BO. Yuck.

This situation can also be compounded if said-fatty is a smoker. Yes, because they aren't doing enough to slowly kill themselves with obesity. If the heart's going down, the lungs might as well go with it. Mmmm, stale smoke on top of BO and uncomfortable invasion of my physical space. When this happens, I literally (and without any subtly) pull either my top or scarf or whatever item of clothing I can find to cover my breathing orifices. Thereby sending a clear message of "you stink, and I think you should know this". It's not the most PC of things to do, but I'm not on the train to make friends and neither is Smokey McFattison. Clearly.

Another alternative and possibly more horrifying is the fatty mom. Okay, these are definitely not the biggest of the fatties, mostly because they actually do burn off some of their calorie intake by chasing after their (inevitably numerous) toddlers, but the horrifying part is watching as they build an over-sized mini-me of themselves. A little fatty in the making. I watched a kid, still pram-bound, eat an entire burger from Burger King. And even when he got about halfway and tried to pass the rest of it to his mom, she simply rotated it and passed it straight back to him, with instructions to finish it. That's it Mom, combat those school yard bullies by making sure your kid can simply sit on them by the time he's six! I know sweet fanny-adams about raising kids and healthy diets, but I'm pretty sure fast-food burgers are not on the recommended daily intake list.

I'll not go into how I feel about airports and airline weight restrictions. That's a whole 'nother rant in itself, which I have covered before. Mills reckons karma is a (fat) bitch and one day in the not-so-distant future, I'm going to balloon to monstrous proportions. I say bring it on. Then I'll get a mobility scooter, I'll take full advantage of the fact that it's "intolerant" to charge fat people extra on full flights and I'll sit next to - and sweat on - the skinny-assed kids every time. Splendid.