I recall standing at the door of the bar waiting for my date to arrive. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. An hour later, after crying to myself in the back of a cab, I came home to an email from him. “Sorry. Not for me.”
One minute, I’m minding my own business, eating kale and looking at babes or whatever and the next, I’m being fat-shamed by a wardrobe assistant on the set of a Dove commercial that I somehow ended up getting cast in.