I’m Carly, and I’ve lived 32 years in a body the world constantly comments on. I’m obese, not the kind where people use cute nicknames — the kind where strangers feel entitled to judge what’s in my grocery cart or shame me for existing in public spaces. That’s why when I fly alone, I always buy two airplane seats. Not for luxury — for peace. On a recent work trip, I paid $176 for an extra seat so I wouldn’t spend three hours pressed against someone glaring at me. I boarded early, settled into my window and middle seats, and tried to relax. That’s when a couple showed up — him smug, her sparkling — and plopped right into my extra seat. “Sorry,” I said, “I paid for both seats.” They laughed. “Seriously?

You bought two just for you?” “Yes.” “Well, it’s empty,” he said, ignoring me and sitting down. His girlfriend chimed in, “It’s not a big deal. You’re being a fat jerk.” Their words stung, but I smiled. “Fine. Keep the seat.” Once we were airborne, I pulled out a giant bag of chips and made very sure I claimed every inch of space I’d paid for — jostling him, bumping elbows,