I am a big fat clown.

I come from a long line of clowns.

Okay, not really. I only come from ONE clown. My mom. Yes, for realz.

My mom was a clown.

She wore a clown suit and clown makeup and a clown nose and she acted like a clown. She even started a group for kids called the Clown Corps. And so my sister and I and all of our less-embarrassed friends dressed like clowns, too.

I thought I had left all that behind.

You can only clown around for so long, right? At some point, surely you grow out of it. This is the idea I held to as I entered my teen years.

It’s obvious my powers of observation weren’t as keen back then, else I’d have realized that if my own freaking MOTHER was still a clown, clearly one didn’t necessarily have to outgrow one’s clownish ways.

Alas, it seems I am doomed to clowndom forever.

Even without the suit and makeup and specialty shoes, people laugh at me. And by “at” me I do NOT mean that precious kind of laughter wherein the crowd is actually laughing “with” me.

I mean that cruel kind of laughter that follows clownish behavior.

Even unintended clownish behavior.

Maybe even ESPECIALLY unintended clownish behavior.

I cannot deny there were signs.

All the way through high school, I stuck out. My makeup wasn’t quite right, and my clothes were definitely all wrong. When society wore Guess jeans, I wore Levis. When they wore Converse, I wore Reebok’s. And when they shopped at the mall, I wore junk from Walmart and Goodwill.

When everyone else had those cool rolling gel pens, I had boring office blue-ink Papermates. When they wore giant Cyndi Lauper-style, unmatched hoop earrings, I was lucky to even HAVE pierced ears, and thus was stuck with boring studs. When their socks went double and mix-match – white sock over red sock on one foot, and the reverse on the other foot – mine remained single, and they always paired up – one white sock per foot.

Clearly my mom wanted me to stay a clown.

Whatever.

If it sounds like I’m lamenting being poor, it’s only because I’m lamenting being poor.

I prayed {insofar as I did that sort of thing, which was never, so I guess I’m lying about the “praying” thing here, but just go with me on this} – I prayed for school uniforms. In my clownish brain, I somehow thought that if we all had to dress the same, the fact that I stuck out wouldn’t be quite as obvious. I thought, with matching outfits, I might even {*le gasp*} FIT IN.

What a sad, silly little clown I was.

I didn’t realize then what I know now: A rose by any other name is still a rose, which is to say that a bitch’s attire does not lend said bitch to more or less bitchiness than that bitch already possessed.

Once a bitch, always a bitch, regardless of the outer wrapping.

Likewise, a clown is a clown is a clown.

Bitches hate clowns.

I mean, come on. I hate clowns myself. Have you ever seen the movie IT ? Yeah. I was already less than impressed, but that monster clown sealed the deal for me.

So I don’t even blame bitches for hating clowns. They are well within their rights.

I just wish, sometimes, that maybe I didn’t have to be a clown.

So lemme tell you what happened.

I have this gorgeous friend named Chloe who knows she’s pretty but somehow doesn’t ALWAYS know it. The fact of the matter is, she is fkn HAWT. And she is young, like just above drinking age. And she is energetic and fun and smart and just so great to be around. For realz.

Chloe is tops, you guys.

BELIEVE.

I am the exact opposite of Chloe.

Remember – I’m a big fat clown. This means I’m not hawt, nor young, energetic, or fun. I’m smart, but only just barely. My mom says I could go to Yale, but she’s Tea Party so WTF does she know?

The point is, I’m the comedy relief to Chloe’s aloof entrance into any room.

Like, for instance, Starbucks.

I have only been in a Starbucks like a handful of times, because that place is too scary for big fat clowns. It’s a rough audience up in there, what with all their hipster ways. So many laptops and funky glasses and crazy coffees and a fireplace for gawd’s sake!

But Chloe needed a coffee, and I did, too, if I’m being honest, because it was before noon on a Sunday and funk mornings, you know?

So I went to Starbucks. In preparation for this trip up the road, Chloe applied upon herself ALL THE MAKEUPS.

I’m like, “Dude. Why?” But see, she knows everybody there, and I’m the only one who has seen her without her face on besides her boyfriend, Travis, who believes in aliens.

So there I am, a big fat clown in a sweatshirt and jeans, slip-on sneaks {because why on earth would I want to tie my own clown shoes?}, and no makeups.

Standing, in hipster heaven, next to this evanescent angel.

And trying to not stand out.

Spoiler Alert: I stood out anyway.

After making the rounds saying hello to various customers and baristas and cashiers, it was our turn to place an order.

Never having mastered the menu, when my time was up, I just said in as suave a voice as I could muster, “I’ll have what she is having.”

And no, I didn’t know what she was having. It just seemed like the easy way out.

The guy behind the counter asked, “Did you want a double shot of espresso, as well?”

I’m thinking, “WTF is so hard about doubling Chloe’s order? And also, why would anyone say NO to any amount of espresso?”

So naturally, I said yes.

And when asked what size, I tried not to shout, “THE SAME AS CHLOE’S!” because I didn’t fkn know what the sizes were and I didn’t want to dick around any longer than I already had.

Then came the fun part where the guys asks your name so he can write it on your cup.

It’s the same, everywhere I go:

Me: Andi.

Him: Sandy?

Me: No, it’s ANDI, like rhymes with Candy.

Him, with a slight look of disdain: Oh.

{He scribbles something. Then wrinkles his nose. Then looks at me again.}

Him: Um, how do you spell that?

Me: A-N-D-I. The girl way. Not the boy way.

Him: So no “Y” then?

Me: That’s correct. It is a fact that I am not a boy. And I do not spell my name like I am a boy. Andi is not short for Andrew. Because that would be silly. For me, I mean. It would not be silly if some OTHER girl wanted to be known as Andrew. I am not opposed to girls being named Andrew. It’s just not for me.

Yeah, that happened.

Chloe saved me from myself by tugging me aside so the next person in line could place their order. Which was just as well, since I wanted to die and couldn’t figure out how to make my mouth stop forming word-like-sounds.

Unfortunately, I’m not able to blend in.

I’m also unable, for reasons which should be obvious, to see behind me, not being in possession of eyes in the back of my head.

This is an unfortunate fact of nature, as you will soon understand.

One of the baristas called the name of a person who had placed an order prior to me and Chloe. As I tried to back unobtrusively out of the way, at the same time this guy came up to the counter to get his drink.

But of course, because gawd hates me, he was moving forward to obtain the space that I was attempting to vacate. I could see everyone’s eyes getting big, and watching me back up, which only served to make me more anxious than I already was, so I backed up more quickly. Because, you know, I’m slow to comprehend situations.

And I backed right into the hipster, a rail-thin guy with panic-ridden eyes who was wind-milling his arms to avoid the truck descending upon him.

I was the truck.

Everyone present did that un-precious laughter and I had no choice but to join in, because I didn’t want to embarrass Chloe any further than I already was by merely breathing.

*chuckle-snort* Yeah, I’m a big fat clown!

*guffaw-haw-haw* Yep, watch the big fat clown knock over the hipster!

*tee-hee* Isn’t being a big fat clown the funniest thing ever? WHEEE!

I regained my balance and grabbed onto a pole for dear life. The pole was located next to the condiments counter, so it almost felt like I was hiding in a corner, and I was able to catch my breath and avoid crying and I didn’t even pee my pants which was awesome.

But as I stood there trying to just be invisible, my feet got all trippy and I thought I stepped on the foot of the girl standing next to me on the other side of the pole. In order not to keep squashing this person with my big fat clown feet, and in order to regain the slightest modicum of balance, I had to take a step forward… and since I was wearing my slip-on sneaks, I stepped right out of that bad boy.

Yep. Lost my shoe, you guys.

BECAUSE I AM COOL LIKE THAT.

I slid back into my shoe and turned to apologize to the girl upon whose foot I thought I had trod. She was staring at me in horror, as though she had never seen a big fat clown before.

I mumbled an apology, and she was like, “That’s okay,” but I could tell from her expression that NO, it really wasn’t okay in any sense of the term.

I tried to retain my position next to the pole, thinking I could hug it and hang on for dear life, when I noticed that the bottom of the pole met the floor in somewhat of a raised hill.

It turns out, I hadn’t even stepped on that bitch.

She accepted my apology for something that hadn’t even happened, and was still glaring at me as though I had broken her toes, even though it was clear I hadn’t even touched her.

Still, I didn’t want to embarrass Chloe in her hometown coffee shop, so I mumbled another apology and silently begged for a hole to open beneath me.

After we finally received our {quite delicious but overly priced} beverages, we quickly made our exit.

Chloe was holding onto my arm laughing, because that’s what you do when you see a big fat clown.

But then she hugged me, which is NOT something you do to big fat clowns.

And she said, “Oh, Andi, I love you, but I can’t take you anywhere!”

And that, friends, is the story of my life.

• Are you a big fat clown, too?
• Do you fit in at Starbucks?
• Would you ever wear slip-on sneaks?