On Being Fat

I’ve always had weight issues. I remember when I was in junior high and we’d have to go to the nurse’s office to be weighed; I’d always make up a story about this mysterious, rare disease I had that caused me to gain weight. I’m actually not sure anybody cared, but as soon as they announced that we were celebrating “health awareness day,” or some other ridiculous misnomer, I’d try to come up with any excuse to get out of it. And when that didn’t work (I wasn’t a very good liar), I found reasons for it. It was a genetic problem; I was big-boned.
Being heavy is a complex issue. It’s not just about eating too much or being genetically predisposed to a larger composition of fat, bone, and soft tissue. It’s not only about not getting enough exercise or being an interminable couch potato. And the solution is often more than simply trying to convince someone they need to eat better to reduce their risk of heart attack, stroke, and diabetes. For some, overcoming obesity becomes much more than simply “getting thin.”
Sadly, I discovered a wonderful thing about being fat. Men tend to avoid fat women like the plague, and I’ve always looked for excuses to avoid men. While they’re wondering how anybody could love someone like me, someone who is the antithesis of the Barbie doll, I’m delighting in the fact that they are keeping their distance. When I was growing up, I’d had several encounters with older men that set my attitude toward all men for the rest of my life. There was the smarmy, greasy-haired principal with large calloused hands and penetrating eyes who couldn’t keep either off me in elementary school. In Calculus, the slow-talking southerner that taught class spent more time looking down his students’ blouses than at the figures on the chalkboard. And at home, I was constantly getting mixed signals about my role as daughter versus that of sexual plaything. Then, I remember when I was in high school, walking home late one evening, being followed by a group of boys about my age and learning the ultimate lesson.
“Let’s do her,” one of them said, loud enough for me to hear.
I started walking a little faster, and began thinking my friends were right about not walking alone at night.
But after a brief pause, one of the other boys responded, even louder and with emphasis, “Naw, she’s too fat.”
I think that short exchange confirmed for me consciously what I already believed subconsciously. Heavy, I was safe. And I would learn, over the years, that other women who had similar histories also found secret comfort in being overweight, and many would not discover until quite late in life (if at all) that it may not be worth the loneliness it enjoys.
It sounds almost improbable, but it was a man who convinced me to step beyond my comfort zone and begin connecting with a healthier me. Although he was happy with my size, he saw that I was not, so with his constant encouragement and positive attitude coupled with my strong desire to feel at home in my body, I gradually decided to make a lifestyle change by joining Weight Watchers.
I am greeted at Weight Watchers with kindness and weighed with discretion. Nobody shouts my weight for all to hear, or reprimands me for being too fat. And as I soon discovered, it isn’t just about how much weight I’ve lost or how many Points I’ve used for the day, although those are important in the program. It is about learning to develop good, healthy eating habits and add some activity to my daily schedule. They offer support there, celebrating small steps and helping sustain me through the setbacks. I am finally in a place where I no longer want to stay fat to keep me safe from the world, but I want to get thin so I can feel a part of it.

Good intentions...

I have about six drafts of unfinished writing, just waiting to be completed and posted. I know I promised myself I'd write here everyday, but life has simply had other plans for me. On the positive side, I am writing everyday, which was my goal when I started this blog; I'm just not sharing my writing with anyone. Fact is, I only know of one person for certain that even reads here (thank you for your devoted interest, my dear friend), so I'm not even sure how much of this is getting read.

But...I am back, for now! I intend to work a little harder at this, so that I get a little better. If you drop by and take a look, let me know, so I have some incentive to keep at it.

Childhood Memories

When I was little, I was the go-between where my parents were concerned. When they weren't talking (which was a lot of the time) there was a quiet understanding that I'd be the messenger for each. That was my understanding, anyway. It was never (well, almost never. I can remember a few "go tell your mother" and "go tell your father"'s) spoken out loud; thing is, if anything was to get done, someone had to do the communicating.

There was a lot of yelling; my parents just didn't do it at each other. My father hollered, I think, just to hear his own voice. He was rash, unpredictable, and difficult to gauge. I was never sure whether what I was going to say would set him off or not; I felt like I was walking on eggshells around him all the time.

We lived in survivor mode in my house. Everyone had a different way of getting by; one would quietly pretend that all was well, another would be completely oblivious to all that was going on, still another would act out. I tried to stay away as much as possible, both physically and, when I couldn't arrange to be gone, mentally. I'd dissociate. Of course, I never realized at the time that that was what I was doing; those sorts of things don't become evident until much later in life when you find out that the "little voices in your head" really are little voices in your head, or that dead feeling inside is not a normal thing that everybody feels.

Life is what it is, and I've come to accept that. The only anger I have left is for people who know and repeat the behaviors, leaving behind more kids like me having to deal with a lifetime of depression and anxiety and fear. Oh, and maybe a little bit for the the people who know and won't give those like me the respect we deserve, or some time to learn and understand.

ILVTOFU

I admit, when I first heard about Colorado's decision to ban the vegetarian's personalized license plate expressing her love for soy, I was really annoyed. My immediate thoughts, before actually looking at the video or the plate, were that big business and government were stepping in yet again to tell us all how good meat was for the world when, in reality, the meat industry is likely one of the primary culprits that keeps millions upon millions hungry. But then I looked at the video, and took a closer gander at the plate, and saw that officials had a different complaint.



Do we want to display, for everyone to see, a license plate that may be interpreted as I.lv.to.f.u.? Hm...interesting predicament. I suppose, for some, that might be offensive. But so what? I am offended by lots of things I see on personalized licensed plates. Who determines what is decent and what is not? And when does censoring cross the line?

We have not learned, in the West, to take responsibility for our own thoughts, feelings, and actions. The woman who is requesting this plate is vegetarian, and is only interested in expressing that on a vanity plate. If you or I misinterpret that message, is that not our own issue, our own responsibility? Why do we need others to come behind us and censor what we read or see? To protect us from our own thoughts and creativity?

Moreover, what -if- the plate read i.lv.to.f.u.? So what? I don't know about you, but in my world, that's a good thing.

The Perception of Beauty

Let me be perfectly clear about something upfront. I think that anyone who presumes to know what I should be wearing or how I should be made up is an arrogant asshole. I allow one person and one person only to give input about my personal appearance, and he and I have an understanding. He knows and considers how I feel, and I happily accept his decisions. (It works, don't bother to try and figure it out).

But my general belief is that clothing does not a person make. In fact, if anything, the clothes and accessories a person chooses to wear actually hide the real person inside. And, while in some cases it may help to be dressed a certain way in order to portray a certain role, it's not always necessary. For example, to be a hooker, you'd probably get more and better-paying clients if you were dressed in heels, a shortshort skirt, revealing top, and lots of make-up as opposed to a pair of sweats and running shoes. Also, to seal an international business deal, you might be more successful if you were dressed in a suit and tie than if you showed up in raggedy jeans and a torn t-shirt. But in both cases, the clothing is less about the person than about the perception of the person. Someone who sells sex for a living can do it without the clothes and the make-up, and a good businessman can close a deal in his underwear if he needs to.

Somebody once asked me what kind of world we'd have if we didn't have all the cosmetic products and beauty magazines, etc.... And I'm thinking that what we'd have is a level playing field. A world that focused more on the important issues and less on the superficial crap. A society that didn't divide its members into pretty and ugly, beautiful and hideous. A society that, instead of striving for superficial beauty, recognized the beauty and potential within each and every one of its people. A society that didn't discriminate and bully and mutiliate to reach some illusory perfection.

I dress for comfort. If you don't like the way I dress, then that's your problem, not mine.

Scarlett O'Hara Syndrome

"Well, fiddle-dee-dee. I’ll think about it tomorrow." Procrastination. My mom and I always kid about my intense need and tendency to put things off until later, but lately, it's become a huge issue for me. Well, ok...not just lately. I've had issues with it on-and-off for several years, but it hasn't been until the last couple of months that I've actually felt compelled to do something about it. As an aside, in talking with my brother a few weeks ago, I was interested to hear that he was struggling with the same thing. Hm...maybe it's genetic.

People who procrastinate run a wide spectrum, from those who occasionally put off starting that home decorating project they have been meaning to get to for the past 3 years, to those who don't take out the garbage, clean, feed the dog, eat, and are always late for work. I'm somewhere in the middle, and I have improved a bit in the last few years. I have a cat, and I feel a great deal of responsibility for her welfare, so she gets her food and water regulary, and her kitty litter box is always kept clean and fresh. But until recently, it was hard to find a place to sit in my apartment, old computers that I meant to recycle sat for probably a year waiting to be taken just a few miles to the recycling center, and bills piled up on a regular basis, unpaid and cluttering whatever empty space happened to be available.

It takes self-discipline to overcome procrastination, and today my bills are paid on time, the computers have been recycled, and my apartment is clean enough for guests. But I'm realizing I didn't do it as a matter of self-respect; I did it for the happiness and pleasure of another. I'm actually ok with that right now, because I can feel the self-respect growing. It's a good feeling.

Fearlessness

I was browsing through one of my favorite fair trade sites the other day, and I found a necklace that was engraved on one side in sanskrit and the other side in English with the word, "Fearlessness." I got to thinking that, I've come a very long way in the last several years, and I've arrived at a place in my life where I'm finally ready to approach it without the burden of fearing what the other guy thinks or what may happen if....

It's a liberating place.

My mom is the ultimate model in fearlessness. I remember thinking, when we lived in that apartment and I was 5 or 6, how brave she was to be battling the mouse that got in our kitchen drawer, or the huge spider that rested ominously on the bathroom ceiling. My mom knows no fear, or at least she doesn't show it. She faces the bear-size raccoons that boldly stare her down on her own back porch, confronts everyone she meets upfront and honestly without bias or backing down, speaks her mind to anyone who cares to listen, and shrugs off people that otherwise might be considered worrisome as not worth her time.

My mom is a rock.

My mom is also a worrier, as she will readily admit, but what mother is not? And burdening one's self with concern and anxiety over whether or not a son or daughter is over an illness is far different from standing up and facing the world without flinching.

My mother doesn't flinch.

I'm excited about this new-found notion of approaching the world with a sense of fearlessness. I'll join my mother, and her mother, in being truly authenic with who I am, and let everybody else worry about how they're going to handle it.