“I have an idea,” I chimed in and raised a finger. All eyes, once again, landed on me. “There’s a new app called FitMe that’s been gaining popularity. Unlike other apps that focus just on tracking weight loss and counting calories, this one has real people serving as coaches and the experience is very individualized.” I kept an eye on my boss, who loved the intentional marriage of technology and human interaction. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had a secret “tech+people” tattoo somewhere on her body. “What if I join and document my journey? I’d talk about the app, but also everything I’m going through as I reach fitness goals.”
I didn’t have to look around the room to know I was the only one who’d be described as plus-size. If she liked the idea, I was the one person who could write it. I learned early in life I was supposed to be ashamed of what my mom called my extra fluff and my sister called my fat ass. It wasn’t until I got to college that I started to accept that I was fun, smart, and . . . fat, and that last one wasn’t the only thing that defined me. When I found FitMe, my wheels started turning with this idea. I was positive the unique perspective I could bring plus the human-and-technology integration was a sure winner.
Maricela was nodding again but had moved her finger from her collarbone to tap her chin.
Shit, she hates it.
“Thank you, Britta. I’d like to see something more original than a weight-loss piece, though. I’d want a stronger connection to wellness, with there being so much body-shaming in the world already. Bring us the next idea, though.” She called on someone else, and I squelched the urge to sink into my chair and hide. It wasn’t the first time I’d had an idea shot down—everyone had—but I’d been positive it would be the bump I needed to earn a place on the staff as a feature writer. I glanced across the table at Claire. She’d made no secret of her goals, and with one position available, we’d both been trying to stand out. Hopefully she didn’t have some great idea to pitch.
Claire caught my eye, her expression pensive, before she tapped at something on her phone, and I turned my attention back to the discussion about homemade face masks and aromatherapy yoga mats.
After graduating from college, I’d hunted for jobs, desperate to prove to my family that my English and journalism double major wasn’t a one-way ticket to unemployment. I was confident I’d find a job where I could write stirring pieces that would change minds and hearts. I was wrong, and I jumped at the editorial assistant position at Best Life. Four years later, I’d learned not to roll my eyes. Though we generated a lot of helpful and insightful content, we also spent a lot of time discussing things like aromatherapy and yoga mats. Some days, it felt like I’d veered so far from my original plans of being a writer, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back.
“Great idea. Put together a plan for road testing the masks and let’s get it up for part of the Valentine’s Day Alone series. Britta can assist.” I’d zoned out, but a senior staff member flashed me a big smile. I’d have to figure out what I missed later.
“Anything else?” Maricela looked around the table and paused at Claire’s raised hand.
“I have one,” she said, her voice even and annoyingly casual. “It’s a different angle on Britta’s idea. There is another app which is just starting to add coaches. I could join that one while Britta joins FitMe, and we’d do the project together, broadening the scope to focus not only on changing bodies but on the entire fitness experience.”
I looked to Maricela. Please let her finger be traveling to her chin. No such luck, it was still tapping at her collarbone. She was interested in Claire’s spin. “What sets this second app apart? How would dual participation improve upon the idea?”
Claire’s shoulders squared. “The app is a lot like the others out there, but they take a different approach. It’s called HotBody. Their campaign is about being hot while being able to rock the body you’re in.”
Our boss’ finger drifted toward her chin as her lips pursed. “This is an interesting take, but I don’t love the visual of a thin woman writing about being hot and a plus-size woman writing about getting fit.”
A hundred responses flew through my head, all landing somewhere between tears and declaring I would write about being hot, too. Luckily, my rival spoke before I did, and with a more measured tone than I’d planned.
“On the surface, I agree. However, there’s a unique take here. Or rather, a very common take. I am thin, but I have my own body image issues. Don’t we all?” She glanced around the room where most of the women and a few men were nodding. “And I’m comfortable writing about it.”