The Uninvited Guest

“Seriously, what are you wearing?” The man with whom I had been trying to secure a friends-with-benefits type of relationship for the last six months—without any success, which was driving me increasingly mad—was asking me. Piqued in my vanity* and mortified, I turned around and told him, with spite, that this was none of his business, which of course was an absolute lie.

Because, if you want to seduce someone—whether the someone in question is a pathetic idea, or not—you might want to listen when he tells you that a potato bag isn’t the most enticing garment.

And a potato bag I certainly was wearing.

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It was in those days when I was at my heaviest, trying to channel Paloma Elsesser** and be body positive, denying myself the acknowledgment that my plumpness was actually a source of profound shame. That it made dressing up an absolute mindfuck, social outings a minefield and dating a harrowing exercise in mustering fake confidence.

I was truly becoming lacklustre. It had started by hiding …