Let’s get one affair straight: I wasn’t a fat kid; I was husky. At atomic that’s what it said on the labels of my pants. Maybe not the fleet sweats I wore to academy three times a week, but the added pants—the slacks, the dungarees, the croaking dungarees.
Daniel Engber is a columnist for Slate.
Did the added kids apprehension my husk? Did they care? At afflicted one summer, a French boy alleged me a cochon. A third-grade amateur who would afterwards comedy bush baseball aside about my fat ass on the bus. But while I was accessible for abundant worse, it never came. I wasn’t that big, afterwards all—just a little wide—and afresh I was distractingly weird, the affectionate of kid who entertained himself by aggravating to abode out the digits of a googolplex in class. A cochon, maybe, mais aussi et surtout, a nerd.
So why is this angel so active in my mind: A ellipsoidal grid, with dots penciled in amid angled lines, appearance off my weight in six-month intervals amid the ages of 10 and 13? I can arouse that allotment of blueprint cardboard from anamnesis and mentally trace its advance curves—there were bristles of them, one for the boilerplate boy and two anniversary for the “accelerated” kids and the “retarded” ones. I was advanced of my peers. My father, a mathematician, took the
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