I am at a sports bar waiting for “Skinny Mini Speed Dating” to start. I am here “undercover” as a journalist and should be mingling with the men who are here to meet “women under size 8 only,” but instead I am staring, sort of detachedly, at sports on TV; men are jumping together in a huddle which must create friction, I think, the spandex rubbing together.
I scan the crowd of speed daters but instinctively look down at my phone whenever one of them makes eye contact.
“Oh my god,” the woman running the event says to me — who, maybe it should be noted, is not a size small or whatever – “I almost forgot! I have to put your size on your nametags. What size do you wear?”
I tell her, nervously, that I am a four or sometimes a six and sometimes a two, although that’s…
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