Note: Read the original "My First Day of School" piece that inspired this ongoing Aristocrats-style series.
I will never forget my first day at Kingston Fat Camp. Believe me, I have tried my hardest, but I recall it like it was yesterday. I wouldn't say I have the sharpest of memories, but the nightmares that frequent my sleep seem determined to keep the details of that day fresh in my mind.
For most people, the first day of fat camp is an exciting opportunity to reunite with old friends and start a summer with a clean slate. I'd be lying if I said I didn't experience a slight amount of excitement that year, but what little I did enjoy was mostly trumped by fear of the unknown.
I knew that while everyone attending that day would be happy to see one another after a long school year, I would be enduring the strange feeling of knowing no one, as it was my first day at this particular fat camp.
To makes matters worse, I had just moved to the town a few miles north of the camp, leaving all my friends behind and hundreds of miles away. Needless to say, the ride to fat camp that morning was full of half-hearted optimism and feelings of hunger and depression. Still, I remember feeling determined to not give up, assuring myself that things would work out for the best.
I held myself together, even as a big red-headed girl made fun of my diabetes socks and glasses.As I walked up to the row of cabins, I was very nervous and thought about turning around and running home. I had asthma, and it took some courage, but I managed to convince myself that I was going to be fine and that all the worries were simply in my head. After all, my biggest fear was not getting a lunch, an occurrence that I had to witness daily at the Jillian Michaels' Center for Kids Who Eat Too Damn Much.
It wasn't long until I found my cabin and pushed aside the bad thoughts and focused on being optimistic. Before I walked in, I took a second to assure myself that I was going to make a bunch of new friends and that the summer was going to be great. Then I picked my head up and marched into my new cabin.
It didn't take more than a second or two for my fears to be validated, because as I walked into the room, all of my bunkmates pointed at me and started mooing and oinking. It was almost as if they had planned it all along—the uproar of barnyard noises could only be compared to what I saw at a surprise party we once threw for my grandpa. Nonetheless, I pressed forward with determination.
I held myself together, even as a big red-headed girl made fun of my diabetes socks and glasses. But then an even bigger girl ran up behind me as I found my bunk and ripped my capri pants right off my ass. She proceeded to laugh wildly, her hippo arms flailing and her cackle rising. And finally, in true bully form, she pushed me into the wall and called me a "fatass," shattering my self-esteem (along with my feelings) into pieces.
I could not believe how mean these girls were to me when I had done nothing to them. I tried to ignore it, but panic began to fill my entire body and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. As hard as I tried to fight it, it was no use. Once I started crying, I fell apart and ran out of the room as fast as I could.
I had no idea where anything was, so I just took off and followed the dirt path wherever it would take me. I ran past several cabins but it seemed like nobody even noticed me, so I just kept running until I found the director's office.
I burst through her door while she was on a phone call and tried to tell her what had happened, but I was so hysterical that she couldn't understand me. She told the person she was talking to she would call them back and hung up the phone. She grabbed me a glass of water and told me everything would be fine. She tried to calm me down by having me take deep breaths.
I explained to her how mean the girls were, and slowly I stopped wheezing and the sweat no longer trickled down my back. After about ten minutes of watery eyes and sniffles, she managed to get me to stop crying, and made me realize that I might be overreacting a bit. She handed me a tissue and I wiped away the snot, thinking I had cried myself out.
Unfortunately that wasn't the case, because it wasn't more than two minutes later that I started balling again when she told me she didn't think I was cut out to be a counselor at fat camp.
All "First Day of…" Aristocrats-style articles:
My First Day of School
My First Day at Prison
My First Day at the Cemetery
My First Day at Alcoholics Anonymous
My First Day of Senility
My First Day of Church
My First Day of School, Part 2
My First Day of Fat Camp
My First Day at the Circus