Fat Like Me

Cotton Candy



Fat, I say.  In public.  Online.  Can you even believe the fucking audacity of giving myself an accurate description??

What follows is always so predictable.  A flood of misguided compliments, and you aggressively imposing yourself onto me.

Stop it,” you say.  ”You’re beautiful.”

Hush now,” you say.  ”You’re amazing and wonderful.”

No more of this,” you say, trying to sew my lips closed.  ”We love you.”

And I can’t help but think:  Yeah…no shit…I’m adorable as fuck!  I never said I wasn’t.  I never said anything about beauty or likeability or whatever else it is that you think you’re saving me from.

All I said was that I was fat (the definition, if I’m not mistaken, means that I’m full of fat, that I’m with the fatness, that this body or its parts contain fat, likely a larger volume than average).

When I say that my hair is brown, nobody freaks the fuck out like I just discovered I was a horrible human being.  So when I note my bulging belly, my fat frame, why do you feel the need to shush and stop me?

Does my voice scare you as much as my thighs?  Which btw ARE fat.  Fatty fatty fat fat.  But, and here’s the point I think that you’re missing, fat doesn’t mean ugly.  That’s all in your head (and in the media, etc.).

And look, I’m sorry that you see things that way; I’m sorry that you’re probably terrified of it; I’m sorry that you fear a body that could disgust you.  But that’s not me, and it’d be real swell if you could stop imposing your shit on me every time I give an accurate description of myself.

Because when you respond to “I’m fat” like I just said I was worthless, you are essentially saying that because I’m fat, you think I’m worthless.

The truth is I just want to live in a world of honesty.  And the honest truth is that I am fat.  I’m beautiful.  I’m talented.  I’m hardworking and well loved.  I’m kind and funny and highly educated (this sentence structure style to the contrary).  Sometimes, I’m also an asshole.  I can be a real dick.  I pout and I cry and I’m a hypochondriac (though I recently diagnosed myself correctly on WebMD so assuming I don’t die immediately I’ll start seeing patients next week).  I’m a human being: good, bad, and everything in between.  And I just want to be able to talk about myself, exactly as I am, without you trying toquiet down my experience, my reality, because of the issues that you have with the words I use.

I’m tired of having to tone myself down for you.

I’m tired of having to refer to myself as a “curvy” girl.  (I do that.  Throw in words like curvy because that’s what they call it.  That’s how they like to describe it but it’s not my word.  I would say fat.  Big and fat.  But they don’t like that).

I’m tired of changing for you.

My fatness isn’t yours to control.  My words aren’t yours to soften.  My frame isn’t yours to contain.

The No-Makeup Selfie: What Are You REALLY Saying?

Makeup

 

Maybe I’m missing something but isn’t the whole “no makeup selfie thing” just as bad as every other bullshit-judging-women-in-an-effort-to-keep-them-weak-and-controllable practice out there?

(and to be clear, I’m all for being proven wrong.  For example, I used to think the whole “nails of the day” trend was super fucking ridiculous and stupid…that is until I heard someone explain it in a different way.  I was listening to a podcast and one of the guests talked about how the “nails of the day” was a way for anyone to express their creativity.  She highlighted the fact that it was almost completely limitless, that truly anyone could do it, for the small price of a few dollars for a bottle or two of nail polish and a couple of toothpicks, anyone could be an artist.  And that changed my mind completely.)

But here’s the thing:  isn’t it damaging to our psyche(s) to think that going make-up less is brave and courageous?

Are we, as women, so fucking hideous that exposing our natural selves is this act of noble defiance?

Can’t we just stop judging ourselves, and each other, for a goddamn second, just long enough to feel a bit of love and appreciation for our own flesh.

Isn’t the act of daring to expose ourselves au naturel just another way of trying to one up other women?

 

Look look look at me, a woman better than all the others, a make-up less woman, I’m basically a fucking hero.

 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for posting selfies (if you want) and seeking attention (if you want) but what if we just cut out all the judgmental shaming nonsense?  And even more so, what if we stopped rewarding women for the way they conform or don’t conform to whatever beauty standards you subscribe to, and just let them develop into super interesting people.

Because, by the way, even if you could get past the whole look at me I’m so brave for being willing to show you my hideous face without the guise of make-up, can we be honest about what those MUL Selfies are really about?

The no-makeup selfie is just another stab at attention seeking to validate that you, in fact, were born more naturally beautiful than all the other girls.  And you know what, THAT WAS FUCKING BLIND LUCK.  If you happen to be lucky enough to be drop dead gorgeous without make-up, well congratulations.  You managed to be arbitrarily selected by a gene pool of beauty.  You didn’t earn it.  You don’t deserve it.  You didn’t work hard for it.  And fyi, it’s value is entirely relative.   So what do you say you stop trying to make other women feel incomplete or less than and just be fucking amazing in your own right.  Be interesting.  Be amazing.  Contribute something to the betterment of society.  Or at the very least, please, think about how the things you do affect those around you.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t post selfies (go right ahead, go on with your bad self!).  I’m not saying that you shouldn’t seek validation (I mean, I would caution against relying on it to feel good as its a fickle fickle thing).  I’m not saying that you should or shouldn’t wear make-up.  What I am saying is that it’s hard enough being a girl/woman and trying to live up to some bullshit standard (to impress men?) and why on earth would you want to make it harder for your fellow com-madres.

Think of all the amazing things women could be doing if they weren’t so busy feeling badly about themselves?

 

Disagree?  Want to change my mind?  Give me your best argument in the comments!

I Am Not Disgusting

Remember:  I am someone’s little sister, someone’s baby girl, someone’s friend, someone’s love.  Please don’t be mean.  My heart breaks the same as yours.

I can show you a picture, paint it on an easel, move your hand across the words in Braille but you’ll never really get it, unless you once tried to talk to someone who thought you were Disgusting. 

It’s a special kind of hurt the moment you find out you’re a sideshow Freak, a detour to chubby town, a vacation gone whale hunting, and you’re swimming for your life from men who want to mount your head on their wall.

You are an endangered species, in a world of bridges and railroad tracks and ceilings with beams not strong enough to hold you, like arms that should cradle you but hang you out to dry and then forget until they look and you’ve blown away.

This post is not in response to this awesome SO BRAVE beautifully written post because that just feels way too antagonistic or in opposition, which is not what this is.  This is an addition.  A plus(size).  An addendum.  So here goes…

When you see a picture of a woman, exposed with the flaws she thinks she hasbut you see none, you stand up and applaud.  She has value.  Her hurt should be taken away.  You think I have no say in how she should live her life.  Who am I to judge.  She has the right to feel beautiful, be beautiful, goddamn it she is beautiful (because honestly, aren’t we all?)

And to be clear, her hurt is in no way less important or worthy than mine.  But, I have to wonder if that same go grrrrl reaction happens when an actual fat person, bares their flaws for you to see.  And though I dream that it does.  I beg for it to be so.  I would give almost anything for that to be true, for this to be a world where you don’t think you have any fucking say over my body.  I have a lifetime of experience that says otherwise.

I’ve never worn a bikini.  Bikini season means nothing to me, though I’ve spent most of life swimming away from whale hunters.  No insult is ever equal when it comes to fat people.  I’m never just a bitch like all you other lucky bitches get to be.  I’m always a fat bitch.  I live in constant fear that teenage boys will spit on me (and I’m thirtyfuckingone).  When I reject a man while online dating (politely), I’m never just a girl who rejected him.  Suddenly I’m a fat bitch that no one wants anyway.

I’m not really going to go into why I’m fat (which I am).  Because the truth is it shouldn’t matter, to you.  This is my body.  I am allowed to eat (which I do).  I am allowed to fuck (which I do).  I am allowed to be happy and not harassed or stared at.  I should be able to workout and not live in fear that you think I’m disgusting.  I should be allowed to just be me, in whatever shape that comes in.

I’m not lazy.  I’m not worthless.  (though even if I was, who are you to judge?).  I have value.  I hold two BA degrees.  I’m currently getting my MA at Concordia in English Literature.  I’m kind to people.  I get choked up on phone calls with my parents because I love them so much.  I want to make the world a better place.  I want to protect young girls whose sexuality is judged and mocked and held hostage.  I want to be the naked tits on the internet that makes it so no girl ever commits suicide after she couldn’t stand being harassed and bullied for amistake.  I want to bear the burdens so other little girls never have to.  I have a family who loves me.  I have friends who love me.  I have people whose hearts break every time you hurt me.  I have no less value because I’m fat.  You don’t get a say in how I deal with my body or my issues.  I spend my days trying to make people laugh for no other reason than the world needs more joy.  MORE FUCKING JOY.  I should be allowed to sit by a pool, any pool, public or otherwise and not have you think that my grotesque form is somehow obstructing your otherwise perfect existence.

And so here I am.  At a summer BBQ.  Unaware of a photo being taken of me.  By a friend.  Who doesn’t see anything other than her friend, the one who makes her laugh and writes “about the most boring shit in the world but in a way that makes it seem sooo interesting”, making a burger (or something lol I don’t really even know what I was doing) on her thighs, on a day when we were all just so fucking happy.

HUGE Thanks to @MmeSurly and her beautiful brave post that has allowed me to be brave and bare my body and heart.

UPDATE:  In my rush to get this post out quickly yesterday, I worry that it feels unfinished, that I never actually said the thing I meant to say which is this:  That I am enough.  You are enough.  Our bodies are our own.  Life is hard enough as it is without having people tell us what we can or can’t do, what we should or shouldn’t show the world, or how much fun and happiness we are allotted.  

That being said, by the absolutely amazing left-me-near-speechless outpouring of love and support and stories from other women and men about emotions and hurt and strength and bravery and desires to be stronger (I could go on but this sentence is turning into a grammatical nightmare of love)…by what this post has inspired you all to say, I know that even without these extra words you somehow understood exactly what I was trying to say.  So thank you, you beautiful brave people.  My heart, it runneth over.

swimsuit

Dear Boys, Nobody Likes to Be a Sideshow

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t’s come to my attention.  As of late.  That I’ve been dating idiots.  Now don’t get me wrong.  People are inherently beautiful and everybody has their talents and upsides.  But when it comes to dating.  These boys are fucking ridiculous.  And that could very well explain why they’re on Plenty of Fish.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  But these aren’t boys that are looking for a discussion.  They’re not just dating.  They’re “looking” for something.  And so if a fella is open and willing.  You have to wonder.  Why.  At 36/37/39/etc. his not finding it.  And that brings me back to the idiocy.

And the thing of the thing is.  I kind of don’t mind.  Because while I know most people read this blog for the funny business.  I have some fucking wisdom.  I swear.  To bestow on those willing to read/hear it.  And possibly the friends of those people.  Because someone has to be friends with these ridiculous boys that I’m dating.  They’re not social rejects.  Just.  Boys with maps to dating.  That haven’t been completely drawn in yet.  And so they’re guessing.  When they should be pulling over and asking directions.  And so here I am.  Waiting in the service station.  Throwing nails on the road so they’re forced to pull in to fix a flat.  Ready to guide.

And that’s why I write these Dear Boys posts.  To share the wisdom.  The small amount I have to share.  Because that slogan I came up with awhile back isn’t just a funny catch-phrase.  It’s a bit of the truth.  Mixed in for good measure.  I really am hoping.  To leave a legacy.  Of boys that have become just a little bit better.  Equipped.  More able.  Stellar.  Master daters.  Something She Dated.

Dating Vancouver a Better Place…One “Something” at a Time.  

So that’s me.  Taking one for the team.  Jumping on a grenade for you.  Ladies of Vancouver, BC.  And possibly even more widespread.  Because after all.  Boys migrate.  So you never know.  Atlanta.  Paris.  Saskatoon.  Prague.  One day you just might owe me a thank you.  But remember.  I don’t take refunds.  And I don’t offer warrantees.

So let’s get down to it, boys.  Because you’re screwing it up.  And you’re grossing me out.  And honestly, it seems obvious enough to me, but I guess I’m going to have to say it, nobody wants to be a sideshow.    Because whether you mean it as a compliment or not.  Compartmentalizing me.  Physically.  Is really insulting. And insecuring.  And ick ick icking me to death.

For example.  When you say (as a dude so recently did on Match.com) you posted lovely photos (this is good) – you are simply beautiful (keep it coming!).  I truly appreciate a genuine curvy figure (umm…fuck off).  And now just to be clear.  Where the fault lies.  So that there is no doubt.  Is in the appreciation of a genuine curvy figure.  Now if he had said you’re a babe or you’re stunning or something equally clear about thinking I was attractive.  That’d be awesome.  Because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I’m not a chick who can’t take compliments.  But the gross part, is three fold.

First.  I hate the curvy thing.  And I’ll explain why.  Because saying I’m curvy doesn’t convey attraction.  It conveys sideshow.  Nobody wants a chubby chaser.  Because the thing of the thing is.  I don’t want the dude who likes fat chicks.  I want the dude who likes me.  Huge difference.  And further to this.  The word curvy is a thorn in my side.  My not curvy but chubby bunny side.  Because I’ll tell you.  Every fat girl has taken enough shit from dudes (and chicks) who would criticize them for daring to call themselves curvy.  Curvy being a coke bottle shape.  Curvy being 36-24-36.  Curvy being Vida Guerra or These Models.  And I am not curvy.  I’m beautiful.  I’m adorable.  I have value and all that other stuff.  But I’m not cruvy.  I’m less Marilyn Monroe and more Beth Ditto.  But most of all, I’m just me.

Second.  The word appreciate.  Now I know I’m going to catch some flack from all of you.  Something like you’re being too critical or stop being such a word nazi or something akin to this.  But to me.  Saying he appreciates my curves is honestly a bit of a jellyfisher.  Because what he’s really saying is that he’s different.  He appreciates what I have…fill in the blank____when others do not____.  And so it becomes just another signpost that this fella wants to take a detour to chubby town.  Whether he regularly vacations there or just heard about this great special.  But either way.  It yet again.  Makes me feel like a sideshow.  Objectified.  And not in an awesome way.  But in a yellow-fever, jungle-fever, chubby chaser, freak show type of way.

And finally.  Just in a totally word-nerd kind of way.  What’s with the genuine?  Like as opposed to the other girls.  Who are fake curvy?  What the fuck does that even mean.  So my dear boys, my dear dear boys.  This is my advice to you.

 

Dear boys,

Ick.  To every dude who likes a chick with some meat on her bones.  Or finds himself attracted to some ethnicities over others.  Nobody Likes To Be a Sideshow.  The way to your woman’s heart.  The key to your ladies panties.  Is not by making her feel like a freak.  It’s not by making her feel like if she were a hamburger that you only ever like her beef.  She is a whole dish.  A WHOLE dish.  And if you can’t appreciate her for that.  You should damn well keep it to yourself.  And honestly for her sake and yours move on.  But don’t tell her.  Don’t fucking make it clear that you just want her for something arbitrary and out of her control.  Because she’s not a circus act.  And you won’t win her over by talking about her tightrope.  Just Sayin’ boys.  Step your game up.  She’ll appreciate you for it.

Yours Truly,
Judgey Wudgey
aka Something She Dated
aka Your boys favorite chubby bunny
aka That girl 2 treadmills over getting closer to curvy status
aka Helping boys woo their ladies one compliment at a time
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time