I started out as a skinny kid. I was so skinny, in fact, that my parents assumed something must be wrong with me and, upon finding that my overactive thyroid gland had blessed me with the metabolism of Wonder Woman, somehow decided that this was a problem that needed to be solved. The doctors -- all men with no concept of how vital it is to be a size one in your formative years -- completely reversed my good fortune, slowing my metabolism to a snail's pace. Ever since then, I've only had to look at a photo of a doughnut to gain five pounds.

Because of this, I have never been The Pretty Chick. You know the one -- she stands out when she's walking in a group of her friends, who all look like water buffaloes next to her. She has impeccable hair and clothes, straight teeth, she can walk in heels without looking as awkward as a baby giraffe, and she always has an itty bitty waist.

It's important to be one of these girls when you're a teenager. If you do not belong in the Pretty Group, there are only two other places for the likes of you: the Ugly Group, and the Nobodies. The Ugly Group is never really as bad as it sounds, because the Uglies have comeraderie. They stick together and defend each other, forming a protective shield of ugliness around one another. But if you are not quite ugly enough to be in the Uglies, and certainly not pretty enough to be in the Pretties, you're a Nobody, and we are completely invisible.

I've managed to push my way out of that category since High School, having gained recognition and acclaim for my ginormous gazungas, but I still belong to the Chub Club, and my membership may never expire.

It wasn't until several weeks ago that I realized things had gotten out of hand. I can still fit into my clothes, I can still see my feet, and I am still able to see plenty of people on the bus who give me that incredibly comforting feeling of "At least I'm not that guy", which is very important to have when you're in the Chub Club. That tenuous little thread of security snapped during the art class I teach, when one of my five year olds said, "Miss Kit, it looks like you're gonna have a baby."

I was astounded. I mean sure, kids have no discretion about their thoughts, and anyone bigger than their mom is considered fat, and since this boy's mom had -- to my dismay -- lost her enormous tummy as soon as she gave birth to her new baby and immediately shrank back into a size six, I knew I couldn't take it too personally. I tried to set him to rights.

"No, I'm not having a baby, hon."

"Yes you are," he said.

"Okay, go away. Go do something."

I finally decided that the time had come for something drastic. I have tried everything, including a pricey gym membership which, nine moths and nearly six hundred American dollars later, had done zilch for me. With the market being saturated with organic, natural, herbal remedies to my problem, I figured, now must be the safest time to try the pill method.

I browsed the diet section at the store, puzzling over products that contained, not chemicals or medicines with names I couldn't wrap my tongue around, but delicious fruits. Everything I saw that claimed fat burning capability was composed of cranberry, blueberry, acai berry, pomegranate or pineapple. I found myself getting hungry while looking at pills that were supposed to stop all that nonsense.

"These are good," said a woman next to me, holding up a packet of green tea extract pills.

She was thin herself, so much so that I was almost mad at her for perusing the diet section when she should really be at Macy's trying on jeans I couldn't have fit a single leg into. Still, I reckoned, these green tea thingies clearly worked for her, so why not give it a shot?

At the checkout, the cashier scanned the box and then paused, scrunched his eyebrows, and dialed for a manager, a sure sign that I would be standing there until the next election. I immediately went into panic mode. When a cashier calls for a manager I get the same feeling of anticipating danger as back in school when a teacher asked to see me after class, or at work when the boss called me into the office.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked the cashier.

"Nono," he said. "Well, I dunno. It's like, cough syrup, you know?"

Buh? Yes, of course I know exactly what you're saying. TALK MORE!

"There's a limit to how much cough syrup you can buy cause I guess if you get a certain amount you can make meth."

"Meth?" I said. "God, I can't even make lemon squares."

"Well yeah, so it's probably something like that."

"Uh... then maybe I should re-think this thing..." But we both just stood there, waiting for middle management, like the barrel-scrapers we both secretly were. As we waited, I had time to sincerely contemplate my impending purchase. What was I about to swallow, here? What, when you can scamper off with booze, cigarettes and fireworks with scarcely a glance at your ID, would merit disturbing a manager from her Cheetos break before taking it home and putting it in your mouth?

After about six months the manager arrived -- a vision in square spectacles and fem-mullet -- and she squinted at the cashier's screen which was shielded from my view. It could have said any number of things on that mysterious monitor, notices popping up in response to my dangerous diet product: CRIMINAL. CRACK DEALER. Or, which I most feared and suspected, FAT GIRL.

Cashier Boy and Mullet Lady knew something about me, some terrible secret that I might not have known myself, or would find out the hard way.

Mullet Lady tapped in a code, they looked at my ID, and that seemed to be the end of it. They were both prepared to move on and let me walk away with a possible arsenic cocktail. I decided I'd better speak up.

"So, is there anything in these I should know about?" I asked. "Because if there's crack in these, I don't think I want them."

Our Lady of Perpetual Mullitude squinted at the box with all its professions of all-naturalness and looked for some giveaway in the ingredient listing like "cocaine" or "acid" or "hobo-maker" or "ground up kitten bits". I watched her read, waiting for some sign that I should give up and accept my lifetime membership to the Chub Club.

After a few minutes she harumphed and walked off without another word. The cashier looked at me.

"So... she didn't answer your question, did she?" he asked.

"No," I said. "But if I come back and I'm a zombie, I'll have my receipt."