Flying poses its challenges. When I was 40 pounds heavier than I am now, I had to ask for an extension for the seatbelt so that I could fasten it properly. It is embarrassing — even more so when fellow passengers point, stare, whisper, and laugh. Some flight attendants understand. They bring the extension rolled up tightly and pass it to me discreetly. Though one flight attendant did walk down the aisle with a screaming bright-yellow one, dangling at full length to the floor as she came my way. If I could have crawled inside the seat-back pocket, I would have.

Because of shrinking seat widths on planes, I prefer the armrest to be raised. I have silent battles with seatmates over that precious two inches of space. I’ve had armrests slammed down and pushed into the top of my thigh angrily, plus dirty looks that would wither a rose. If they are really adamant about not lifting it, I give in and try to stay within the borders of my space, squeezing my legs tightly together and folding my arms over my chest for the duration of the flight. It’s uncomfortable, but I just deal with it because I sense the disapproval of others if my body should encroach, even slightly, on their domain.

On land, I feel just as judged. While I was visiting the Caribbean island of St. John, a cab driver said, “You’re a big one,” as I got into his taxi. “I have to charge extra because I’m going to use more gas with you in here.” I was stunned, but I wasn’t going to let it go: “You can’t just make up rules as you go along. Charging according to size is prejudice. I’m not paying more,” I said. As he drove, I fought back tears of hurt. When I paid him (no tip), I said, “I was looking forward to seeing your island for the first time, but now what I will remember about it is how rude you were to me.”

Going to spas presents its share of amusing moments because I need an extra-large robe. I can’t count the number of times I’ve squeezed myself into a robe and had to duckwalk to a treatment room because I was trying to keep the gaps in the robe closed with my hands, so I don’t flash my lady bits to the world. I loved the time when a spa therapist handed me a robe and said, “This one should fit. It’s huuuge!!” Gee. Thanks.

Fortunately, I’ve discovered great places where people appreciate my chubbiness; where it’s not only attractive, but a sign of wealth — a clear indication that you can afford to eat. When I was in Myanmar in December, my local guide would run into people she knew as we explored the country. “Dorothy, you’re getting so big!” some would say. Her reply? “Thank you!”