The Fat Kid

Every elementary class has one. He is the lowest of the low. He is a rung below the smelly kid. Even the poor kid has license to crack jokes in his direction. He is the fat kid. At an age where the foundation of self-esteem is being laid, the fat kid’s only friends are Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, and Little Debbie. While other kids dream of birthday parties at the skating rink, he longs for a party at McDonald’s where none of the cruel children from school are invited. Instead it’s just him and his new best-friend: Ronald McDonald. I was that fat kid, and to this day I still feel a slight sting when people refer to me as “big guy.” I know they mean it as a term of endearment, but to me, it’s just a polite, grown-up way of saying “fatty-fatty-two-by-four.”
My name didn’t do much to help my lard-laden plight. My first name is Jamie. This is a girl name. Many people will argue that it is a unisex name, but I challenge these people to find a girl named Jamie who has been made fun of for having a male moniker. It is quite difficult when you’ve got a name like Jamie, and, even though the good Lord has blessed you with a penis, you are still the first one in your class to grow a pair of boobs. By the middle of third-grade, I had a pair of mammary glands that were the envy of my teacher, Mrs. Burchitt.
My last name didn’t exactly help my cause either. Campbell is a name that is most commonly associated with a soup company. This wasn’t so bad, until they came out with a new variety: Campbell’s Chunky Soup. Now the name Campbell spawned both chunky soups and chunky boys. “Chunky soup, chunky boys, and chunky boobs,” I can still hear the chants at recess to this day.
It was near the end of third grade when I stumbled into a local grocery store and discovered that, no matter how big your boobs were, you had to be eighteen years of age to purchase Dexatrim. Luckily for me, I was caught the first time I attempted shoplifting, successfully ending my life of crime. The punishment my mother gave me was to write a letter to the manager explaining that I was sorry for what I did. Sarcasm reigned, as I penned an epistle explaining that I was not sorry at all. I had boobs. They had the solution, and they wouldn’t help me. I was forced to steal, and felt no remorse whatsoever. I received a lifetime ban from the Edmond, Oklahoma location of Walgreen’s. I was also grounded for two weeks, during which time I probably consumed eight pounds of Breyer’s mint-chocolate chip ice cream, my fleshy bosom growing exponentially with every bite.
My grandmother was the only one who seemed to understand me during my gluttonous youth. She actually encouraged me to eat. She constantly praised me and called me a “good eater.” I don’t know what it means to be a “good eater.” Eating is something that everyone does. That’s like saying “that guy breathes really well.” Still, being “tits Campbell,” I was starved for compliments and would take them where I could get them.
I remember the time when I graduated from “normal” to “fat.” It was when I grew into my first pair of husky-sized jeans. “Husky” is the term they give for the jeans that fat kids wear. I guess it’s a better marketing idea than “Lardass Junior.” I had never heard of “Husky” jeans and was still living in the denial that my mother spawned when she told me I wasn’t fat, but just “big boned.” The truth came out when I wore my husky jeans to school. I would like to take a moment to thank the genius at Levi-Strauss that decided it would be a good idea to print the size of jeans on the back tag. This man is responsible for the sneer that Ryan Lindsay gave me on the playground as he said, “Hey Jamie, I see you’re wearing husky jeans.” Such a simple statement, but it was the birth of a new era of terror and humiliation. At that moment I lost the ability to blend in. From that point on, I was “The Fat Kid.”