Getting the Flick

One of my favorite forms of fat solidarity is the flick-glance that I sometimes get from well-dressed fat women on the street.  There's a recognition in it.  I got one yesterday (I did look cute, leather jacket & print skater dress & nude flats & pyramid-stud cuff bracelet like it's 1994 and I'm a mall goth) from a girl wearing a great yellow blouse and a pencil skirt and her hair in a particularly nice wispy afro.  I'm not even exactly sure why I tend to interpret this flick as a friendly one, because it is totally possible that girl was thinking "there but for the grace of God go I; note to self: no pyramid-stud cuff bracelets because this is not 1994," but it does feel friendly to me.  Maybe just because I catch myself giving it to other fat women—to women about my size, about my age, and well put-together—and my intentions are friendly ones.  Basically I'm going, "ooh, well done" in my head, and thinking about asking where her skirt comes from or whatever, but what feels cool about this little moment is the analogy between us, the mutual "you're like me" of it.  I know it took her more work to get herself that cute than it would have if she were a size 12; I know she busts her (fine) ass to figure out whether to order the 18 or the 20 and sometimes orders both and resigns herself to the inevitability of the trip to the post office to make the return. I see you, is what the flick says, and I get it.