“Big.” “Chunky.” “Plus-sized.” These are all words my loved ones would use to describe my appearance. Others would just call me “fat.” The medical community would use the word “obese.”
Strangers and acquaintances alike take it upon themselves to try to shame me, to make me understand the way that I’m destroying the world by insisting on being fat. There’s an entire industry (several, in fact) dedicated to trying to solve this problem for me. And I’m told every day, in many many ways, that if I just stopped being fat I would be better, happier.
Most days I manage to drown out the external and internal voices that try incessantly to let me know that I’m a failure, that every “extra” pound is one more mark against me. Most days I’m just louder than the voices, so they don’t make an impact on my day. Some days I’m not.
I want to have the courage to wear a bright red fitted dress without thinking about the muffin top or the love handles. I want to have the boldness to have my photo taken without dreading the split second where I see just how fat I am compared to the others. I want to stop seeing myself, and judging myself, through the eyes of others. I want to stop it all … now.
And I don’t mean that I want to lose weight (though I want that too). And I don’t mean that I want better clothes (though I always want new clothes). I just want to love who I am, in my current size and shape, without having to work at it.
I guess when I achieve that I’ll know I’m actually, finally, a grown up.
In the meanwhile, I’ve challenged myself to try to take more selfies … and I’ve been failing at that too. But I will get better. And I will keep trying. At some point I’ll stop dreading the photo … eventually.
I was good today and brought my lunch to work. Brown-bag lunches are part of an attempt to keep my diet regulated and my budget under control. That is, I eat better and spend less money if I bring my lunch instead of going out to buy it.
I don’t want what I brought.
This happens frequently. I go to the trouble of packing a lunch, then when I eat it it’s boring or I just don’t want it. It’s the reality of being an emotional eater. I usually pick what I eat based on how I’m feeling. How I feel the night before, when I pack the lunch, is never how I feel when it’s lunchtime.
I’m just weird.
The good news is that, as a result, I never finish my lunch. The bad news is that by dinnertime I am starving.
At what point do you stop being friends with someone? What’s your line in the sand?
She asked me what my size is, casually, because she’s lost all this weight and has clothes she needs to get rid of now. The clothing is size -X2 (ie., two sizes smaller than I am now; note I am “X”).
I told her what my size is. This is something I wouldn’t tell my sister, wouldn’t answer to practically anyone. But I’ve been friends with her for more than a decade, good friends, “hold your hand while your parent dies” friends. And though it seems that we’ve hit a rough patch, this is info that I would automatically share.
“Oh, no,” she says, stating that the clothes won’t fit me. I tell her that I think that they’ll fit my sister-in-law.
Then she waves on my direction, “Too big,” she says. And, dumb me, I really think she’s talking about the dress I’m wearing. I even say so.
“No, dear, you’re too big.”
Wait. Did she just call me fat? Did she just say to me that I’m too fat?
Is that allowed?
I nod and say that I know. But what I really want to do is yell at her, scream that that’s not something you say to a friend, that I don’t call her on her shit and she doesn’t call me on mine.
My size, my fatness, apparently, is my line in the sand.