switch perspective story 2

As hit songs from the 1950s filled the air, the girls stood giggling on one side of the gym while we guys lounged on metal folding chairs on the opposite side trying desperately to look cool. We acted aloof and in control but were actually panic-stricken by the thought of going over and talking to the girls, even though every strand of our DNA begged us to do so. “Let ’em come to us,” we joked. If they did, our male pride would swell; and if not, at least they might think we didn’t care. My best friend at the time was Chip. Chip was tall, a good student, and a great athlete. Of the three I was, well, tall. Unlike Chip, I was quite chubby. When I was a teen, shopping for clothes meant a trip to the dimly lit basement of Belk’s department store to rummage through the selection of “husky” (overweight boys’) clothes. Because he was tall and athletic, I could tell that several of the girls were eying Chip. I don’t know which bothered me more: the girls’ obvious attraction to Chip or his unwillingness to act on it. He just sat there, even though we encouraged him to get the dance started by going over and talking to the ponytailed and bobby-socked enchantresses who sat waiting for us to make the first move.

“I’m too shy,” Chip said. “I don’t know what to say.” “Just go over there; let them do the talking,” I said. “You can’t just sit here all night.” “You’re just sitting here,” said Chip. “You’re Mr. Talkative. Why don’t you go over and say something to them?” Drug addicts will often remember the first time they tried what would ultimately become known as their “drug of choice,” the narcotic that would consume and possibly even destroy their lives if they couldn’t shake their addiction. With my next sentence, I was about to embark on an addiction to complaining that would last more than thirty years.

I leaned toward Chip and said, “Even if I went over there, none of them would dance with me. Look at me—I’m too fat. I’m thirteen, and I shot past two hundred pounds a long time ago. I wheeze when I talk. I sweat when I walk.” Noticing the other boys looking at me, I continued, “Chip, you’re in great shape. The girls are looking at you, not me.” The other guys nodded in agreement. “I’m just a funny guy they like to talk to, but they don’t want to dance with me. They don’t want me … and they never will.” At that moment, another good friend walked up from behind and slapped me on the back. “Hey, fat boy!” he said. Normally, his greeting would have meant nothing. Nearly everyone called me “fat boy.” It was a nickname that suited me and one that I’d grown accustomed to. I never took it as an insult. These were my friends, and it didn’t matter to them that I was fat. But when I was called “fat boy” after having just given a greatly embellished speech using my being overweight as an excuse to not ask a girl to dance, the effect on our little circle was palpable. One of my guys glared at the one who called me fat boy and said, “Hey, shut up!” “Leave him alone!” said another. “It’s not his fault he’s fat!” a third interjected.

I looked round the circle as all my young friends looked at me with great concern.

After a moment’s pause, the voice inside my head shouted, “Play it up!” So I sighed dramatically and slowly looked away.

We were all seeking escape routes to take us away from having to face and possibly be rejected by the girls. Chip’s was being shy. Mine was being overweight. The combination of my complaining about being fat coupled with the timing of a playful insult from one of my friends not only had gotten me off the hook but also had led to attention and sympathy. I had complained and in so doing had excused myself from doing something that frightened me, and I had also received attention, support, and validation. My drug had kicked in. I had found my addiction. Complaining could get me high.

What goes into your mouth determines the size and shape of your body. What comes out of your mouth determines your reality.