so this one time, on the plane...

Everyone was on their feet, carry–ons and personal items collected, waiting for the airplane doors to finally open. We’d been standing for a while. It had already taken what seemed like forever for the pilots to taxi the plane to the gate, so needless to say, we were all antsy and very ready to get the hell out of there.

The guy behind me, who had somehow managed to slither himself between my husband and me, was shoving me… again. I was not particularly comfortable with the way he was poking me with his body and belongings, nudging me forward. I had nowhere to go. So, finally, I turned to him and said:

"You can shove all you want, it’s not gonna make me go faster and it’s certainly not gonna make all the people waiting, ahead of me, move any faster either.” 

Maybe not verbatim, but definitely something in those lines, with a polite but firm tone nevertheless. 

Clear, concise, and logical. Right?

His reply was eloquent in its simplicity:

“Fatass!”

He said it after I had turned away. He said it to my back essentially – presumably to my fat ass – but he said it loud enough that I heard him. That others heard him.

I turned around and give him a dirty look. You know, the polite but outraged one?

I said nothing.

He continued to intermittently shove me and call me a fatass. I pretended to ignore him, though the hairs on the back of my neck were in their upright position. We eventually progressed forward at an excruciatingly slow pace, through the plane, the walkway and to the gate, where I met up with my husband. The guy, who was still right behind me, had the audacity to wave and shout one last “Bye bye, fatass!” my way.

I continued to say nothing.

Norman, the old poop, who was in his usual tizzied state about getting to the luggage carousel in a hurry, didn't notice anything. 

We collected our bags and 

proceeded with our vacation.

For days afterwards, I wondered whether I should've said something and thought about what would've been the ideal thing to say. Sure, I was outwardly chillaxing in the sun, but mentally, I was on a relentless hunt for the perfect reply -- the one that would've made him see the error of his ways and sob in utter shame in the middle of the airport, begging for my forgiveness; the one striking the right balance between erudite, proper, firm, and thoroughly stunning (maybe even with a hint of haughty, sure, why not) properties. Failing to achieve that, several variations with the word fuck used as an adjective may have been contemplated. A few possibilities including anatomically impossible situations may have come to mind. References to his mother may have also been considered, at some point, the appeal of which may or may not have been directly proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed.

I just couldn't let it go. 

Part of me was absolutely indignant about his comment, but the other part was keenly aware that after having fractured my spine and been out of commission for a while, my ass was indeed fat. Though that was neither here nor there, it didn’t help my outrage to know that he was, at least technically, right. Also, it didn't help that he wasn't exactly what you would call trim and slender, either.

I was brought up to be a respectful person.

To say please and thank you.

To wait in line.

To wait for my turn.

To be kind to strangers.

To turn the other cheek.

To take the high road.

What I was not taught, sadly, was the art of the retort, at least not the kind useful in a confrontational exchange. So instead of being well versed in shutting the face of an offensive moron, I proceed to react in the weirdest, physical way: my heart races, my body alternates between hot and cold, like when someone is messing with the shower’s water temperature, and my hands start shaking noticeably. 

Almost always, I come up with a great comeback… after the fact.

Does this sound familiar? Do you think that sometimes rude-for-rude may be justified?
How do you answer a complete stranger who insults you for seemingly no good reason? 

Would you have said something? What would you have said?

My blogger friend Melanie of is this the middle? wrote a post about a moment when she was shamed about her appearance . While pondering about what I had personally experienced, I recalled this somewhat related incident, oddly not too deep in the recesses of my memory. 

This happened a long time ago. 

The me now would handle it differently. 

Probably. 

Maybe.