Michael D. Davis.

I was a chubby baby, a chunky toddler, then a husky pre-adolescent. When I got into my teen years, the pretty adjectives went out the window, and the phrase “Jeez, you’re fat” came flying in.

Now, if you’ve ever seen me on the street, you know what I’m talking about here. I am not exaggerating in the least. I am not someone who was once skinny, then gained 75 pounds, and now goes around saying, “Oh my, I’m so fat anymore; those cookies are so addicting.”

No, those people are just annoying. I’m the real fat. I was born fat. As a baby, I was once mistaken for a butterball turkey. (Okay, that may be an exaggeration.)

The part here that people may find strange is that I have never thought anything was wrong with me because I love myself. It is everyone else that has the problem with my body. I have been called a fatty, fat freak, a pig, hog, cow, elephant. I’ve had children point me out to their parents, and teenagers take pictures of me when they think I’m not looking. I have had doctors try to give me shots and recommend surgeries. Neither of which would have helped my health, just my weight.

One Halloween, I was out trick or treating; I couldn’t have been older than eight or nine when I came to the house of this old lady. I was very polite; I knocked on the door, she came waddling out with a big bowl of candy, and I said, “Trick or treat?” This old bag took one look at my fat costumed rear end and took the large bowl of candy back inside. A minute later, she returned with an old brown spotted banana.

What really grinds my gears about this incident all these years later is that it wasn’t even a new banana. I mean, it was a dark yellow covered in brown polka dots, probably been sitting on her kitchen counter for two weeks since the Meals on Wheels group dropped it off to her. But she thought this fat Frankenstein needed his potassium.

The first recorded incident of a stranger commenting on my weight was all the way back when I was just a few months old. The story goes that my Ma was out pushing me around in the stroller when she was stopped by this man. This guy looks in at me and says to my Ma, “He must be yours; he has your double chins.”

Not only did the guy fat shame my Ma, but he fat shamed a baby. I mean, did he think that was a compliment? Or did he think that would get my six-month-old butt into gear, and I’d start doing crunches and join a gym?

I like being my fat self, and I’ve never thought about losing weight. I don’t know what the advantage is anyways. If I was thin, I’d still have severe asthma. If I was thin, people would still comment on me, probably just about how I dress, act, and am.

You know, fat pride may be the wrong wording here. For me, anyway, it’s much simpler than that. I simply love me, and who I am. And heck, if I wasn’t a fat guy, what would this column be called? Magic Mike Medium? Eh.