The earliest comments I can remember about my physical appearance were all about how skinny and long-legged I was as a kid.

I was called “bamboo pole”; adults often exclaimed at how skinny I was to my mother, and it would inevitably be followed by some sort of advice on feeding me the “right food” to fatten me up.

I was a quiet kid but never stupid; I would pretend not to know what was going on while silently observing the adults. I hated these conversations and I hated how many people saw it fit to comment on my weight in a manner that insinuated that my mother must have been incompetent or a neglectful parent.

In primary school, I always wished I was average-built. I didn’t enjoy being singled out for being one of the few underweight students and having to sit through school-sanctioned dietary talks with my mother. These talks were supposed to be for all students whose weights were out of the healthy weight range, but always geared towards those who were overweight. I always had to sit at the back of the class due to my height, and this arrangement often made me feel as if I was punished for being tall.

I hated how the school uniforms looked on myself — I never fit into them properly, and looked gangly and awkward. When I first met a girl who was of similar build as myself in primary five, we hit it off almost immediately and became best of friends. There was something we shared and understood about each other — how we got teased, how people made comments about our height and weight — that others did not. Finally, I had someone whom I could talk about these issues and feelings freely, someone who understood.

As I grew older, the nature of the comments I received changed. It used to be “Wah! You so skinny! And tall!” in the same tone one would point out an alien UFO, and it started to change to one of envy when I was in secondary school. People would start suggesting that I should work as a model because I was skinny and had long legs. I hardly believed them, because to myself I still saw this gangly, awkward girl.

I never considered myself superior in terms of physical looks to the other girls, who looked prettier with their figures that filled out the school uniform nicely, with curves in the right places. I looked like a bamboo pole with a sack wrapped around it. I still disliked my height for making me stand out, although I was beginning to enjoy being seated at the back of the class (more leg room and room for mischief.)

Eventually, my height and weight became less of an issue to me in my late teens, especially in junior college, where I met many girls who were much taller, and similarly built, that I didn’t stand out so much any more.

I started to see my height as a positive thing. The turning point was when I started attending rock gigs and getting into the mosh pits. It was so much easier to see the show and to actually breathe, because I was about the same height or not significantly shorter than most of the guys in the pits.

And while others started dieting to attract boys, I found myself being thankful that despite all the teasing I got as a kid, the tables are now turned. I didn’t, and still don’t find that being thin is “better”; but I am glad that I am no longer being picked on for it.

I have received so many comments of “Oh my god you’re so skinny and tall! Are you anorexic?” all my life that I have developed a finely tuned set of automated responses. I often rattle off the stock “No, I’ve always been skinny. I have fine bones and a high metabolic rate. I do not have an eating disorder.” without a second thought.

It is often considered acceptable to comment on someone’s weight if they are thin because being thin is seen as desirable. What people don’t realise is making comments like that is as insensitive and rude as going up to an overweight person and saying “Oh god you’re fat! Do you eat fast food burgers all the time?”

Because really, anyone who is thin must have an eating disorder. Why do I have to defend my physical build to random people?

I don’t fault most people for making comments on my weight because most of them don’t realise what they’re doing. But some people can be unusually obnoxious and rude, and for them I have a set of sarcastic responses, crafted and refined through my teens. All-girls’ schools can be vicious, nasty places for an awkward teenager:

“I am not anorexic. I eat three grains of rice a day.”
“Well, I survive by eating air.”
“Me, tall and thin? Nah, it only looks that way because you’re short and fat.”