Fat Slut

Most of the time I really am fairly fat-positive as regards my own body. I’ve learned how to dress it, I’m more or less mobile, I don’t have any significant health problems. I like the way my belly sticks out and squishes, I like my boobs, I’ve even begun to come to terms with the double chin. But summer sorely tests all my resolve.

There was a heat wave for the past four days here in the northeast U.S., and the air conditioning couldn’t keep up to the 98-degree heat and high humidity. I had to catch a bus to the other campus to see my psychiatrist and I wanted to die. Nobody likes hot, humid weather. Having sweat get trapped in between my rolls, under my breasts? The sweaty, sticky feeling of my thighs sticking and rubbing together? Misery. I found myself wishing I was thinner, just so there would be less of me to sweat, fewer crevices to stick and trap that heat. And I know being thinner wouldn’t actually help. Maybe if I was just a brain in a jar.

Making matters even worse? I had my period. And I’m going to put further discussion of this behind a cut, because I’m going to get graphic and I know some people don’t want to read that. Read the rest of this entry »

Two of my friends are on diets - one in a structured long-term way, the other in a panic spurred on by finding out that none of her pants fit anymore. (Which, I can understand is terrifying, and have totally been there. Eventually after hating myself and bingeing I just bought some damn new pants. That helped a lot more than abortive weight-loss efforts, for me.) And I’m so opposed to dieting at this point that I have a hard time holding back, telling them that they should love their bodies, that they’re trying to get by on starvation levels of calories, and linking them to the entire archives of Shapely Prose. I haven’t done this, because I think right now it would be really… not rude, but ill-advised. Particularly with the panicky one. Especially since they have all these people cheering them on. (These are purely online friends, which makes life easier.)

This also means I’ve been in a weird head-space recently. Since writing that last entry I’ve been trying to be more mindful of what I’m eating and how. That’s harder right now, though; PMS week is always a challenge for me just in terms of not snapping and tearing people new orifices, and it’s also hard because it’s been hot. Normally warm, and then these past few days blazing, ridiculously hot. PMS makes me want to eat lots and lots of cheese. Hot weather? Lots of nothing, except ice cream. And on top of it all I’m still in a tailspin about school and work and moving out; I have just under eight weeks until I leave, and in that time I have to write two papers, study, and retake the exams I failed. And try to squeeze in time with the friends who I’m leaving. (We’re going to a ren faire next weekend. I have to write a post about taking measurements next time.) Which means stress, which means bingeing. Mindfulness is a struggle.

So that means yesterday I had spinach and artichoke dip and a salad with tons of avocado, because I wanted things that were green and not a giant hunk of meat; it means I ate only one and a half servings of pasta instead of three and only half the pint of cookie dough ice cream, instead of shoving it in till my stomach felt full and hard. It means making egg salad and then putting it in the fridge after a spoonful, because I honestly didn’t want it. It also means a lot of Pringles, because I’m craving salt. But I could be doing worse. I’m not going to bed with a stomachache. I’m trying really hard to be aware without assigning values other than how I feel, both emotionally and physically. I need to eat more vegetables because they make me feel healthier, even if I hate standing in our bizarrely hot kitchen to slice everything. I think I can do this.

I’ve terribly neglected this blog. But I’ve had a hell of a lot to deal with in the past… um… month. First I had the end of term to deal with; I ended up taking an incomplete in one class because of ridiculous scheduling, and pulling a few all-nighters to get through the others. I also found out that I failed three of my eight MA exams (two of which were initially passes, wtf) and would have to retake them in October and be a semester behind in my progress towards the PhD. On top of being a semester behind, it was confirmed that I would have no funding for next year. And the sole professor in our department who works in my subfield would not only be swamped by other students by the time I got to work with her, but will be taking on less work because she’s having a baby. (Which is fabulous for her!) Now, I would try to tough it out if it were just one of those factors. But with all those things combined… well, I’m taking the next year off, moving home, getting a job, and applying to other PhD programs. I’ll be doing the retakes sometime at the end of the summer - but again, I don’t know when, because the chair of the department says I can take them at the end of August but my lease runs out on July 31st.
More to worry about.

So there hasn’t been much time for mindful eating or deep thoughts on the body politic. There’s been a lot of comfort eating, and a few descents into bingeing; I’ve tried really hard to be aware when that’s happening, to not beat myself up for it, to cut off the bingeing before I hurt myself, and to try and treat my body well. I’m trying to appreciate my body the way it is. And it hasn’t been all bad. I went shopping with three friends who range from inbetweenie to bigger than me (one of them referred to it as the “curvy classicists shopping trip”), and that was awesome and deserves a post of its own. I saw a bunch of movies and discovered that really, I can get by with the small or medium bag of popcorn.* I fell in love with Ben Barnes, the distractingly hot Prince Caspian in the new Narnia movie. I bid good-bye to friends who are leaving for the summer, not knowing if I’ll get to see them again before I leave.

And then this past week I got an absolutely horrible toothache that appeared to be the result of a sinus infection. (I hope, anyway. The antibiotics seem to have helped, but they would also have helped with an abcessed tooth. Waugh.) Which meant I couldn’t really eat anything except very soft food. And put off eating as long as possible so I didn’t have to jar my tooth at all. Great way to lose five pounds fast! And to feel like total shit and spend most of your time in bed!

And now I’m finally eating solid food again, and my lunch was totally disgusting and I threw it out. And throwing it out rather than stuffing myself with something that I found totally unpalatable is a big change from the past few weeks, I guess. Maybe that’s the point. If there is a point to this rambling, disjointed mess of an entry.

* Side story: my mom loooooooooooves movie popcorn. Loves popcorn in general, but especially movie popcorn. So every time I went to the movies in high school, she’d give me a few extra bucks and tell me to get the large bag and bring home the extra for her. It’s habit for me by now, and I honestly had never though of getting the small until two weeks ago. I’m slow sometimes.

Long time no post, I know. But I had exams, and then going home for Passover, and now I’m gearing up for the end of term.

I finally had it out with my mom. Which sounds way too harsh for what actually happened. I’ve been trying to gradually get her used to the idea of fat acceptance and that I’m probably not going to diet ever again and that I’m pretty much happy with the size of my ass. But she always goes “Yes, and if you ever DO lose weight…” And I know she’s trying to be supportive and whatever, and she’s afraid of the family history of stroke and heart disease and type II diabetes. Still, though.

And I finally just told her: dieting makes me wig out, and more importantly it triggers bingeing, and that combined with depression equals serious bad times. And I think she got it. I know that she had vague problems with eating disorders when she was a teenager (due to her mom being insane and evil) but not the details, but I think that that awareness combined with me finally laying it out for her like that made her get it. We’ll see.

I should write more about her relationship with food and how that ties in with mine. And about Passover and the feast we had. But it’s late and I’ve had a drink and I think those will be posts for another day.

Not the looks-to-be-dreadful movie that’s being advertised right now.

My sister’s a sophmore in high school, and she got asked to prom by her boyfriend, a senior. I feel old. Anyway, she was showing me prom dresses on websites (I don’t know why she thinks a C cup should wear a strapless dress) and the sites she showed me? Had entire plus size prom sections.

How awesome is that? I don’t think those existed when I was in high school, which wasn’t too long ago - I was at the very top end of straight sizing back then, but my prom dress shopping wasn’t typical, so I can’t be sure either way. But it’s around now. Which is fantastic.

Interesting post by the Fug Girls over at New York magazine. It just makes me think - I was never upset or disillusioned about only seeing bone-thin models in Vogue, which my mom got for years. Mostly because while I was never going to be that thin, I certainly was never going to be that rich, either. Comments about being too rich or too thin aside - my family growing up was and still is pretty solidly middle class. I never wanted for anything, but a $5000 dollar handbag or $600 pair of shoes was never something I thought of having. The models in those clothes were as unrealistic and unattainable as the clothes themselves. And a good bit older than me, too. What did bother me, what did have an impact on my self-esteem, were the girls in Seventeen. That was much more packaged and targeted to girls in my age and class bracket - being suburban and about twelve when I started reading it - and the models were generally about my age-ish and had perfect hair and makeup and impossibly, effortlessly thin. With articles on how dangerous eating disorders were and “celebrating your body” and still having these thin models? I think the teen magazines need to worry more about this stuff than Vogue, which is admittedly blatant fantasy.

This could probably be more coherent, but I’m trying to work on a presentation and do homework and not think about how my MA exams are a week away. Ulp.

The other day I was discussing shopping with my friend A. We’d been to Target the night before - I needed pyjamas for an impromptu sleepover at her house, and she and her mom decided to comb the sales racks. As you do. And I found pyjamas and a shirt for the next day, and I’d tried on another shirt where they scaled up the body for an XXL but not the sleeves. Shame, since it was cute and a lovely green color.

But the next day when she was driving me back to the train station (an hour away so I didn’t have to transfer at one of the scariest train stations in the country) we discussed how hard it is to find clothes. Because I’m 5′4″ and wear a 20 or 22 on bottom and anything from a 16 to a 20 on top. And because she’s 5′10″ and very skinny and relatively long-waisted and flat-chested. We both have problems shopping for clothes. And we’re considering just tailoring our own. There was talk of a Hello Kitty sewing machine.

So tomorrow I’m going shopping with L and J (not the same L from my previous post; I may have to give these girls pseudonyms) and I’m actually sort of excited for it. Because J is also fat, and L is straight sizes on bottom but can do smaller plus sizes on top, because she has a Rack of Doom. So we will go to the stores where we can find things that fit and look awesome, and buy Fabulous and Fierce clothes. No, seriously, that is our plan. We want to look Fierce, for reasons to do with a boy that might get detailed in a later post. We’re also looking for shoes.

And the other reason that I’m excited about this shopping trip: I’ve recently weeded out my closet and dresser. I lost some weight about three years ago, then gained back all of it and a lot more two years ago due to some major emotional upheaval. (Best friend dumping me + writing a senior thesis + waiting for grad school acceptances = major depressive episode and triggering of bingeing.) But I was wearing clothes that were still too small for a really long time. And I’m finally, slowly, getting rid of them. Getting clothes that fit me, that don’t ride up or bind or bunch uncomfortably. It’s taking a while. But I’m getting there, slowly. That’s part of what tomorrow is for.

It gets said a lot. “You have such a pretty face.” If only you could lose weight and free that pretty face from the layers of blubber! Surely there’s a pretty body to go along with it! And so forth.

But what if you don’t have that pretty face? I do, more or less - big hazel eyes, people always ask if I’m wearing eye makeup, a great smile, meticulously groomed brows, and a nose that gets the job done. And my hair looks fantastic, more often than not. Good genes, that’s all, but it gives me a certain amount of cultural capital, to borrow a phrase from Mina. On the other hand I have a friend who is definitely… not pretty. How different is that experience for her?

I sound like such a n00b, I know.

First off, I want to apologize to my poor neglected blog. My regular journal is getting neglected too, as is pretty much everything in my life that isn’t studying. I’m taking my MA exams on April 4th and 7th. I feel doomed. So I haven’t got much spare brainspace for Real Issues, or in fact anything that happened after 330 CE.

Anyway. Tonight we had a lecture and a reception, and at the reception I ended up standing and chatting with L and R, two other students. L is also a fat girl, possibly slightly bigger than me, but I’ve always been bad at judging that sort of thing. R is tallish and rail-thin. So we’re chatting and the conversation turns to clothes; I have a desperate need for spring clothes, due to weeding out my wardrobe and ditching a ton of clothes. (They didn’t fit anyway, but that’s another post. And a lot of stuff is stained or deteriorating because I’ve had it for ages and can’t get through a meal without dropping something on myself.) R chimes in that she hates shopping, we commiserate, and she says something about it being impossible to find pants, in part because she has no butt.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now that I’m home and figuring out when I can go shopping I’m sort of mad. I totally agree that mainstream manufactured clothing is impossible for a lot of people, and that everybody has a hard time finding stuff that fits. It’s the nature of the beast. But. But if you are under a size 14 or 12, you are going to have a slightly easier time simply because there are more options. There are maybe two or three stores in any mall where I can buy clothes in my size, and that’s if I’m lucky. We don’t have a Torrid in the mall that I go to. We have a Lane Bryant, and another by the grocery store. There are the department stores, but Macy’s are prevalent down here and I haven’t found them that great for plus-size shopping. I can squeeze into the largest size at New York & Company for tops, depending on the style. Same for Target; their plus-size section, at least in our store, is pretty dire. And… that’s about it. I simply have fewer places to look for jeans that will fit my butt, for tops that are cute and springy and not stained with curry, for clothes.

Which is to say that I am totally unoriginal, and I’m also waiting for a super-cute coat I ordered from Jessica London to show up. But I don’t know if it will fit. Argh!

Maybe not ruined ruined, per se. But it certainly changed things.

When I was seven, a kid in my second grade class pushed me over. It wasn’t bullying or anything, he and another kid were in a mock fight and I happened to be standing in front of them. When I fell, my left leg went out and my foot folded in, and as I later found out, one of the ligaments snapped. I was on crutches for a while. And being seven, I didn’t get how important physical therapy was, and my parents were both busy with my new baby sister- she would have been a few months old at this point. So it healed, but not properly.

When I was nine, I stumbled somehow in ballet class and hurt my ankle again. Being a fourth grader with a cane is not fun, except for smacking Matt L. in the shins when he called me “Granny.” The doctor said I would either have to give up ballet - we were about to start dancing en pointe - or not be able to walk when I was an adult. I loved dance, I had been doing it for about four or five years at that point, dancing in a local production of the Nutcracker (I was one of the mice who pull the sleigh at the end) and going to “ballet camp” at the dance school in the summer. But I had to give it up. And looking back, I wonder how much that affected me. I was lucky enough to go to a school where the teacher focused on teaching kids to dance rather than molding our bodies; I was one of the stockier kids in the class, but I don’t remember being told that I was too fat. But if I’d kept dancing, would I have been forced out as I stayed built like a brick shithouse and developed breasts and hips? Would I have grown to hate it?

When I was twelve, I hurt my ankle in swim practice. I kicked “too aggressively,” and had popped the joint somehow, damaging that bad ligament again. Another week or two with the Aircast and cane in my school with lots of stairs, and another mandate to give up the sport. It wasn’t a particularly hardcore league; it was recreational, not school-organized, and while we had some good swimmers we were never pressured to be the best of the best, just to swim the best that we could. I didn’t love competition, but getting in the water for two hours every three days was one of my favorite parts of the bleak hell of middle school. Like most teenagers, I had massive friend drama; this is about when my eating disorder/disordered eating started. Stopping swimming at that point is something I’ve always regretted. I might not have been as fat as I am now; I doubt I would have been as miserable.

My ankle’s still sort of fucked up. I can’t really run - aside from being out of shape and needing a sports bra that resembles the framework of a battleship - because my feet have a natural tendency to supinate (or tilt inwards) and that combined with the weak ligament means bad times are ensured. But I wonder what would have been different if it had never happened, if I had kept dancing, if I had kept swimming. What would I look like? Who would I be?