Porky – that’s what they yelled at me from the school bus every afternoon when I walked home.

I ducked my head when the distant cries of “Porky, Porky” would crescendo to an almighty “Oink! Oink! Oink!” the bus whooshing past me; a blur of nasty faces laughing and hissing out the window.

I was supposed to be on that bus. Ironically I chose to walk the nearly four kilometers home from primary school to avoid what would only be a ride of sustained abuse from the bunch of scabby kneed turds hanging tough on the back seat.

Only ten years old at the time, I took it bizarrely well. I do remember taking comfort at home with an extra spoonful of Milo or another biscuit from the tin. But I don’t remember tears, which is strange for the usually hypersensitive me.

I just dealt with it. Wish I knew how, so I could bottle and preserve it for my own kids to drink when they are dealt their first dose of bullying.

It was probably a stroke of luck that we moved to another town during the Christmas school holidays. An equal stroke of luck that during those holidays my metabolism kicked in and my body decided to stretch its mass upwards.

Who knows what would have happened if I’d stayed at that school. Perhaps the comfort eating would have remained alongside the stereotype that had been allocated to me by those scabby kneed turds.

So, with a new school came a new me, and some wonderful new friends. Porky was laid to rest.

So why am I sharing this tale?

Well…

Because…

Today…

At the age of 39…

My butt looked like this on Jeans for Genes day (thanks for the inspiration Bianca).