Hazel Hated Fat Women

    My grandmother wore high heels well into her seventies. Her size six outfits were impeccable, complimented by rings with multi-carat stones. The glint of diamonds and emeralds prompted dim-witted queries from strangers: "Is that real?"

    With a wave of her manicured hand, platinum polish flawless against olive skin, she'd dismiss the commoner. "Yes dear, of course." Her tone was dry ice.

     A doting and fun grandmother, she was cautiously benevolent to outsiders.
There was one subset of humanity, however, to which she was downright cruel: fat women. Obese females were a disgrace to womenkind, and Hazel Ethel demanded that they know it. I cringed when a woman over 200 pounds dared to enter a restaurant. I wanted to bullet proof the large woman from the shooting glare my grandmother would aim.

    If the hapless woman wasn't taken down by Grandma's eyes, the stage whisper would surely bring her to her dimpled knees. "Look at that!" she'd seethe, fake quiet, her face contorted with anger. "MMMPH" she'd continue ,a growl of terrifying fury.

     Aiming the gun of her eyes again, she'd elbow me, a teenager thin only by viture of thrice daily vomiting sessions. "She must be a size 18, don't you think? My God, maybe even a TWENTY!"

    "Okay!" I'd hiss quietly. "Grandma, did I tell you I got the highest grade in my class on my French final?"

     Fail. Academic success for girls was pleasant, expected. It didn't hold the currency of a slim figure. I tried again. "Grandma, the dress I'm wearing is a size seven."

    "Wendy, that's wonderful. In no time at all you'll be down to a five. Ooh, look at the pastry cart. Darling you simply must order dessert!"