An Open Letter to Naturally Thin People

You know who you are. You casually walk into the employee lunchroom with leftover Burger King tucked under your arm, a dollar in your pocket to buy Sunchips from the vending machine.

When we went to college, the rest of us agonized over our weight. The dining hall became a veritable fat factory, full of cholesterol waiting to seep over the tops of our high school denim. We spent 20 dollars a week on diet coke, celebrated the invention of Propel, and sloshed through puddles on rainy days all in the name of keeping our highschool figures. In the end we all failed, some more tragically than others, but we stood united in our defeat. We moaned and groaned together. We joked about Lindsay Lohan's cocaine diet, but knew we were only half-kidding. We tried crazy fad diets and failed.  We planned group shopping trips as soon as bubble dresses became the style, thrilled they hid our ever-expanding lovehandles.

Throughout all of this, you stood off to the side with your 4,000-calorie brownie Frappuccino from Starbucks. You nodded in all the right places, said, "Damn, I know, right?" and wiped the whipped cream off your chin. You were never mean about it. It was simply a part of life that you didn't understand.

Our older friends, wiser, somewhat worse for wear, told us, "Don't worry, guys don't like girls that skinny." They pointed at you discreetly and said, "She's built like a boy. Men like curves. Men like women that look like women." And it pacified us for the time being, but on some level, we knew it was a lie. Because when given a choice between flat-chested Kate Hudson and gargantuan Kirstie Alley, who do you think men would choose?

Thousands of dollars and dozens of weight loss programs later, we're still struggling. Some of us have bins in our parents' attics, full of jeans we haven't been able to wear in five years. We should just throw them out, but that would mean defeat, so we don't. We let them accumulate dust, dust that we will one day, hopefully, get all over our hands in our haste to open that bin.

This is a message for all the women who can still drink frappuccinos on a regular basis: Your time will come.

It might be ten years after college graduation. You'll wake up one day and realize that you have to suck in your stomach to button your skinny jeans. Maybe it'll be after your first child, and the weight you gained won't slide off you like the freshman 3.2 you gained. Or maybe you'll be like Sienna Miller, and realize one day that, despite being skinny, your skin flops around your tiny bone structure and you look worse than some fat people.

I say this not with anger, but with the quiet realization that what goes around comes around. Maybe it's Karma. Maybe taking it for granted will be the catalyst for your downfall. Maybe it's like diffusion, and the bad luck will gradually spread out.

When it happens, I'll be flying down the esplanade with Muse blasting in my earbuds. When the proverbial fat hits the fan for you, that's where I'll be, in my rosy-cheeked, muscled glory. My ass will be carved from steel, my quads will be almost too strong, and my arms will finally not look like string beans. Maybe I'll still have a miniature spare tire, but I'll be a tan, ripped, golden God so I won't care.

When you stagger into the gym, I will help you. I will politely remind you that Converse sneakers are not workout attire, and I'll even show you how to work your core. I will throw out your Frappuccino.

So enjoy it while it lasts, thin person. Your time will come.

And until then, at least my boobs are nicer than yours.