chapter twenty-nine
FULL-FIGURED FITNESS INSTAGRAM QUEEN BODY-SHAMED FOR DATING SIX-PACK HUNK
Crystal Chen (@CurvyFitnessCrystal), 27, broke the internet when she posted a sexy, now-viral photo of her and her new beau at the beach (photo below) to her 250,000 Instagram followers. Posted on August 5th, the photo has received over fifty thousand Likes and six thousand comments, many of which have questioned her apparent new romance.
As a body-positive advocate, Chen has been on the scene for years, cheerfully spreading the message to women to “embrace their curves and love their bodies.” She’s been an inspiration for women of all sizes and shapes to engage in weight-neutral healthy lifestyles. Her clients have long raved about her flexible workout programs, which stress the importance of mental well-being in tandem with physical health.
While she didn’t specifically name her swoony new beau, he’s been identified as Boston Fire Department member Scott Ritchie (@Ritchie_Scotty7), 30.
Chen’s followers hope she will continue to share her life with her new partner, while also continuing to serve as a role model in the fitness industry.
*Editor’s note: Chen did not respond to BuzzFeed News’s request for comment, nor has she been active on her account for two full days.
Cocooned under the protection of a thick, knitted blanket on the couch, I read the article again for the fifty-eighth time. I’m most certainly developing a severe case of carpal tunnel from clutching my phone with a death grip.
Upon my first read of the article, I was livid. I wanted to breathe fire and flip a table, Real Housewives style. I knew the journalist was going to write the article, but somehow, it didn’t seem real. Not until my name was blasted all over the internet.
It’s now been a total of two days since the photo was posted, and it’s officially gone beyond viral. In between self-loathing and staring into the abyss, I’m obsessively tracking the coverage, trying to locate every place the articles are reposted and retweeted.
I’ve also been contacted by all the biggest news outlets, including Glamour magazine, Perez Hilton, and the New York Times. It was even a Hot Topic on The View. When Whoopi Goldberg passionately shrieks across the table on your behalf, you know you’ve made it. If only it were for a different reason.
I’ve received an outpouring of supportive messages telling me how “inspiring” I am. But I can’t help but feel like my platform’s message has been completely overshadowed. It’s no longer about body positivity. It’s about fat-shaming. Crystal Chen as a victim. The curvy girl who somehow snagged a six-pack hunk.
The logical side of my brain tells me to end my hiatus and reclaim the message. But then again, would it all backfire? Would it just scare other women off from loving themselves, especially when they read the nasty comments? The mere fact that the photo is viral because of the negativity further reinforces the inherent struggle of being curvy.
There’s really no winner in this—aside from the trolls, whom I don’t want to pay an iota of attention to. I need more time to strategize a response. And realistically, I don’t have the energy to defend myself, or be anyone’s role model right now.
I’m heating a cup of noodles, my new go-to meal, when I catch the time on the microwave. It’s six. Scott is probably just getting off his shift. It occurs to me that I haven’t heard from him yet today, which is uncharacteristic. Then again, my responses to his texts yesterday were bland at best. It’s safe to say he’s bothered I haven’t wanted to see him after being apart for the past few days, which might as well be an eternity.
Just as I settle back onto the couch, steaming cup of noodles in hand, Scott bursts through the front door without knocking. It’s as if the mere thought of him has summoned his presence. He’s wearing the dark green hoodie I love, which brings out the deep forest-green hues of his eyes.
I’ve never seen him like this before, aside from when he thought Martin was sick. Hard, bloodshot eyes. Jaw tense. Hair wild, sticking up, unsure of which way it wants to fall. He stands in place for a few agonizing beats before stomping forward, brandishing his phone in front of my face with one of the articles pulled up. “What the hell is this?”
I sink farther into the couch, immobile, eyes welling. I feel awful he’s had to find out about it from some third party. It doesn’t help that I’m void of any plausible explanation as to why I haven’t told him myself. Every time I went to call him, I chickened out, terrified of what would happen if he read those comments sooner than he needed to. But now that he’s right here, obviously having read them, how can I even begin to explain?
His severe expression softens as he sits down next to me, his thumb and index finger pinched over the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. The familiar warmth of his body next to mine settles the dread in my stomach, but only marginally.
The silence is deafening. I think it’s about to swallow us both, until he says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I bury my tearstained face in my hands, inching to the edge of the couch, knowing full well there is no excuse. I should have told him the night of the wedding, or days ago when the BuzzFeed journalist emailed me. Or better yet, when I originally posted the photo. “I wanted to handle it myself,” is all I can think to say.
He splays his thumbs over my cheeks to wipe away the free-flowing tears. “Why?”
“Did you see the comments?”
“Yeah, but I had to stop before I smashed my phone. They’re bullshit,” he says, expression tightening. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
I suck in a shaky breath. “Because I know how much you hate this stuff. I didn’t want you to read that crap about yourself, all because of me. I know it’s not an excuse. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
He presses his lips to my temple. “You know none of those comments are true, right? I—” He pauses for a moment, pulling back. “I hate that this is happening to you.”
The moment his eyes lock with mine, my lips tremble and the tears overflow yet again. My vision blurs and I find myself lurching forward, sobbing into his chest. I’ve never done this before in front of him, in front of any guy. I’m like a completely broken version of myself with no way to put myself back together.
I’m weak, in a way I haven’t been since junior high. The days I used to hide in the changing room stall to change. My entire high school and college years were spent erasing those feelings, desperately willing myself to feel the complete opposite—strong and confident. Trying to be someone who doesn’t give a shit about what other people think, especially for the sake of my followers. Now, I’m faced with the reality that I’m not really that self-assured, happy person. Not to my followers, and now, not to the person who matters most. Scott.
I hate this. I can’t go back to that dark, lonely place. I refuse.
My eyes harden at my internal declaration, and I straighten my posture, promptly dabbing away my tears. “I’m good. Really,” I say through a sniffle. “To be honest, I think I want to be alone tonight.”
His face knots with unease. He looks positively ill. “Alone? You shouldn’t have to go through this by yourself.” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “There’s gotta be something I can do—”
“Scott, please,” I cut in, voice quivering. “Stop treating me like I’m some sad, pathetic puppy. There is nothing you can do. I don’t need you to go into hero mode right now. In fact, I need the exact opposite. All I’m asking for is one more night alone, just to collect my thoughts and figure out what the hell I’m going to do about all of this.”
“Crys, I—”
I stop him, placing my hand over his. “I will handle this myself. Trust me.”
• • •
TARA CLOSES HER paperback abruptly and lets out a heavy sigh beside me on the couch. “Do you remember what you said to me the second week after I came to stay with you?”
“Uh, to stop leaving your Pop-Tart crumbs all over my kitchen counters or I wouldn’t cook for you anymore?” I mutter, cheek pressed into the arm of the couch at an awkward angle. I’ve been lying in this exact position since I woke up this morning. There might as well be a chalk outline surrounding my lifeless body.
“Besides that.” Tara shifts to the edge of the couch, knee bouncing, eager to enlighten me. “You told me to wash my face and at least pretend to have my shit together.”
I can’t help but snort at the grim memory. “And you whipped a book at me.”
She tightens her grip on the book. “Damn right. You were being a hard-ass. But you know what? It helped. I felt a thousand times better. So if I can stop moping over my fiancé dumping me and my whole future being flushed down the toilet, you can snap out of this. You’re acting like a brooding man-child from one of my romance novels. It’s not a good look. You’ve gotta let it all out.”
I flash her the stink eye, silently willing her to leave me alone. She doesn’t.
This is one of many glaring differences between us. With any given problem, she airs her woes to everyone and anyone within her general vicinity, like the poor, confused technician at the pharmacy a block from my apartment. The more people and opinions, the better (not that she actually takes anyone’s advice).
I’ve never been one to rely on others when I’m upset. For some reason, I prefer to suffer in bleak solitude. I’m basically the Grinch (the Jim Carrey version), dwelling in his lair, monologuing excessively, and loathing all that is good in the world.
It’s been a day since Scott left, albeit reluctantly. If I’m being honest, my stomach bottomed out the moment he walked out the door. But the shock of having gone viral, combined with his I-must-fix-you attitude, was overwhelming, almost suffocating.
Being alone with my thoughts, however terrifying, reenergizes me and clears my head, which is exactly what I need to strategize my response to the situation. I can’t ghost my Instagram forever.
Unfortunately, literal silence to think is hard to come by. Tara has been blasting “Rumors” by Lindsay Lohan on repeat. She’s deemed it my new theme song, and it’s both tragically and embarrassingly appropriate. The bop is a classic, but I’m getting a little unnerved.
I’m about to text Scott to check in and thank him for giving me the space I need when Tara shrieks, pausing Lindsay right when she’s asking why people can’t just let her live.
“What?” I ask.
“Did you see what Scott commented?”
I wrinkle my nose in confusion. Scott never uses Instagram, aside from liking all my photos when we first met. “What? No.”
Tara hands me her phone, eyes wider than dinner plates. “You’re not gonna like this.”