My Earlobes Still Feel Fat

Say Yes to plus-sized brides being treated like brides (period)

2012-02-19T09:09:00.000-08:00

If you follow me on Twitter, you'll already know how obsessed I've been recently with a show called Say Yes to the Dress, which is a reality show that follows brides-to-be who are looking for the perfect dress at Kleinfeld's bridal salon in NYC. I got into the show when I was living with my parents in San Francisco a few years ago, and spending a lot of my free time Tivo-ing reruns of What Not to Wear and other TLC shows (like I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant – NOT recommended for anyone even slightly suggestible). I'm already a bit dress-obsessed, in general, and I have a weakness for reality TV (the NYTimes says that's okay!), so one episode was all it took to hook me. I love seeing the different styles of dresses, comparing how they look on different body types, gasping at the incredibly poor taste some brides have and the stunning dresses others choose. I love tearing up when the dads start to cry and yelling at the entourages when they opine too strongly despite the way the bride clearly feels and clapping and grinning when super-gay, super-adorable stylist Randy finds a girl the perfect dress – I just adore it all.

And I've missed it, since moving back here to the land of copyright issues. It's hard to find my favorite shows online (it's impossible to find them legally), and anyway I've always been a bit squeamish about illegal uploads (classic goody two shoes, always thinking I'll be the one to get caught). So I've just done without. I had a book to work on in my free time, anyway, and I had enough trouble catching up on Come Dine With Me and my other fave UK reality shows.

But then I finished my big edit, and sent the MS to my editor, and... didn't have much to do. I mean, there's plenty to be done (visa stuff, job hunting, and always dishes and laundry), but I also found myself with a lot of free time on my hands and very little entertainment. So I bit the bullet – I bought two seasons of Say Yes on iTunes (let's not talk about how much that cost, okay?), and I devoured them in a week (hey, they're short!). And then, because I was panicking a bit about running out, I bought another season, of a spinoff series called Big Bliss.

Yup, it's about plus-sized brides. And I was wary, I must admit. I hate the title (it's kind of rude and condescending and I just dislike the use of the word 'big' because it makes me think of mountains in wedding dresses), and I agree with my friend Rachel that they shouldn't have their own spinoff at all (her exact words were: "why do they need their own show? They're people too!" Word, Rachel, word). But I loved the idea of seeing women in wedding dresses who, even if they didn't represent me, represented something I still relate to, and (this is important) something other than the 'ideal image' of a woman.

And guess what? I LOVE IT. I love the dresses and the bickering and the taste levels and all the same things I love about the original series, but I also think it's probably the first show I've ever seen about 'plus sized' women that treats them like normal people. The stylists don't seem to care at all that they're putting women into size 28 dresses (sometimes those women are size 30, and the stylists just rubber-band those motherfuckers and ask the girls what they think of the dress without blinking) – they just want their clients to feel beautiful. There's no judgement on whether or not that woman is beautiful in any sort of 'objective', society-approved way. These women have fiancés who love them, who obviously think they're gorgeous, and they deserve dresses that make them feel gorgeous.

The interesting thing is that almost all of them, even the most outwardly confident 'volumptuous' women, arrive in the salon nervous about what they'll find. They're scared they'll look like sausages, or that people will think they look 'undignified', or just that nothing will fit at all. And the stylists handle these fragile women with just enough grace and sensitivity to make them feel at ease, without calling attention to the fact that they're fragile (in fairness, many brides, of all sizes, are fragile about how they look). Randy is especially caring, in a completely genuine way, and I just want to squeeze him and send him roses and chocolate and thank him for making these girls feel like not only are they beautiful, but they deserve to feel beautiful. I love it.

It's not just the stylists, either. One of my problems with Biggest Loser was always the camera work – slow motion clips of heavy people running, their faces red and sweaty, their bellies bouncing. IT pisses me off. It's voyeuristic and exploitative and offensive. And Say Yes doesn't do it. They don't hide the brides' bodies (not even when they're not in dresses), but they don't focus on things like back rolls or red faces (and you know they're there, after all that getting in and out of tight dresses). They focus on the dresses, the detailing and the shapes and the flattering/unflattering aspects of them. And, most importantly, they focus on the faces – the frowns, the tears, and the eventual YES glow.

So if you're looking for a reality show that feels truly real, without exploiting people or subtly mocking them or patronizing them, I highly recommend Say Yes to the Dress, Big Bliss. Heck, I recommend the skinny version too (lord knows there are plenty of body image issues there as well), but if you're specifically in the market for something to make you feel like the world isn't such a judgmental crapfest after all, then Big Bliss is where it's at.

Now if only they would show the brides' sizes / measurements so I'd know where I stand, my life would be complete...

New year, new attitudes about weight and health?

2012-01-07T12:24:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I've had a lot going on these past couple of months, and I'm currently getting down to business on the first big set of edits for my book, but I just had to pop in to share my thoughts on a couple of articles that have been stirring my blood lately.

First, this article from the New York Times, about a new study proving that our bodies actually conspire against us to hold onto fat we desperately want to lose, and that people who have lost weight before actually burn fewer calories doing the exact same activity as they would have burned had they never been overweight (sorry if that didn't make sense, just read the article). I read it while I was on holiday in Rome, stuffing my face and telling myself that all the walking on cobblestones would work off the carbonara and the lasagne and the fried artichokes, and I must say I found it both fascinating and seriously depressing. The description of the lifestyle a person needs to lead just to keep off a significant weight loss is so severe, I basically wanted to give up right then and drown myself in tiramisu.

But then I posted it on Facebook, and got a couple of really thoughtful responses, which allowed me the chance to change my mind a bit (click to enlarge, and please excuse the messy blurring of people's names/faces):

Then one of my good friends added to the conversation, posting a link to this response to the NYT article, which I found really interesting and which, as I said to her, is exactly the kind of response I hadn't even allowed myself to consider, because as a self-titled fat person I didn't feel like it would be taken seriously coming from me.

But now I was starting to shift my view of this new study. Maybe it wasn't depressing, maybe it was liberating: could it be that our bodies resist losing weight precisely because our 'weight goals' are below where our bodies prefer us to level out? Sure, we're probably evolutionarily programmed to hold on to fat in case of famine, and we probably don't need that gene anymore. But could there also be something to be said for being fit at any weight, and trusting our bodies to know what's best for us?

A sort of answer came a couple of days later, when my former teacher sent me a link to another article, this one about why women need fat, from Salon.com. This time, rather than just telling readers that their bodies will resist losing weight more than they expected, the scientists interviewed in the article actually defend extra weight in women! The part I found most interesting:

"Many M.D.s have bought this fallacious line that the optimal weight for women in terms of their health is what M.D.s call normal weight, a BMI between 18.5 and 25. And they have thought this to be true because women with higher BMIs exhibit a series of physiological measures that are indeed risk factors for disease in men. But they are not systematically risk factors for disease in women. If you actually look at the data from the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey and data from studies done in other countries, the optimal weight for women who have had a kid is what doctors currently call “overweight.” I’m not saying that obesity is optimal, but all the findings show that overweight women survive better than normal weight women. We walk a fine line in the book because we argue that being overweight is not nearly as bad as your doctor has been telling you, but on the other hand, Americans are heavier than they need to be. There are diseases that still correlate with heavier weights, like diabetes. But if we ate a more natural diet, by that I simply mean the diet that we evolved to eat, we would all weigh less."

Whaaaaat?! I've been saying BMI is bollocks for years, and here it is in black and white: not only is it true that diet and fitness levels are more important indicators for health than weight, but BMI, according to these guys, is a completely skewed indicator for women as a whole!

I was pretty blown away by this. I mean, I've always thought (and said) that we should focus less on the number on the scale and more on real indicators of health, like lifestyle and blood pressure and lung capacity, but I sort of never expected to be backed up so wholeheartedly by scientists.

It's nice to feel like the scientific world is finally starting to get it. And although the aforementioned NYT article does still promote weight loss, even for people who are otherwise super healthy, I feel like maybe it's a step in the right direction. If nothing else, as the comments on that article suggested, people who are naturally thin might look less disdainfully upon heavy people who struggle to lose weight. And lord knows that's a start. Compassion leads to greater understanding, and if we can understand weight and fat better, maybe we can start to change our views on them. And maybe then we won't need the skinnies to have compassion for us, because we'll just be different, rather than worse, or lesser, or contemptible.

Hey, it's a new year – a girl can hope for change, right?

I should be happy...

2011-10-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

Things have been crazy lately. I’ve finished my MA, started looking for afull-time job, and gotten an agent and a book deal, all in quicksuccession. It’s all happening reallyfast, and it’s almost all good news; as my friend pointed out on Facebook whenI announced that I had a publisher, I’m finally profiting from my all-consuming neuroses. They’ve always been the source of myself-deprecating humor, these nerves of mine, but they were never much good foranything else until now. Suddenly, Ihave an audience for my particular brand of crazy, and everyone around me seemsto be thrilled on my behalf. I should bethrilled too, and I am, I keepinsisting… well, my logical brain is thrilled.

The thing is, in my heart I’m terrified. Publishing a book about my body anxietypublicizes it, and while I’ve always been one for publicizing my issues on aconversational level, I’ve never really had to deal with a large audiencebefore. Even this blog only has a fewcherished followers and a smattering of googlers. So I’m anxious about what happens next, and especiallyabout the pressures associated with my particular choice of topic: will peopleexpect me to be constantly dieting and working out, and if I’m not (which ismost of the time), will I get hate mail from people who think I’m a lazy slobwho complains about her body without trying hard enough to change it? Will I get reviews saying I’m charminglyneurotic, a new sort of everywoman, or will they label me a whiner who’s tryingto profit from having been fat and taking the easy way out?

And it’s not just about what other people think – I’mjudging myself much more harshly in the light of future publication. I’m worried I don’t work out enough (thoughI’ve become more disciplined lately), concerned about every sugary bite thatgoes into my mouth. I’m also up nightsfretting over what should be in the book and isn’t because it didn’t flowcorrectly, worrying that I haven’t given my readers enough information. And perhaps worst of all, I still feel shittyabout my body, and now I’m beating myself up over than even harder than usual.

Lately I’ve been feeling like the fattest girl in everyroom. I’ve always had slim friends –kind of extraordinarily slim, too, often smaller than a size 10 – but for somereason it seems like the more friends I make, the smaller the average sizegets. Maybe it’s a sort of aspirationaltechnique – my parents always used to say that one reason I did better inschool than my brother, despite our equal IQs, was that I surrounded myselfwith the best and brightest and aimed for the top, while he surrounded himselfwith the mediocre and aimed for the middle. And maybe it’s that way with my body, maybe I gather the slim galsaround me in the same way that dieters tape photos of models to theirrefrigerators, as inspiration. But ifso, it doesn’t seem to be working. Allit does is make me feel like the elephant in the room.

And then I beat myself up for feeling that way. The point of my book was to work through myissues, and also to show them to the world andmyself as issues that most women deal with, no matter theirsize/diet/surgical history. And the aimI had for myself, which is also laid out in the last chapter of the book, wasto stop focusing so much on my body and try to work on my mindset – if myboyfriend loves my body, and I know it’s healthy, and most of the world doesn’tthink it’s revolting, then why do I have to hate it so much?

But I’m failing at that aim these days. I don’t know if it’s the book deal or justthe beginning of winter doldrums, but lately all I see when I look down at mybody is rolls, flab, and excess skin. Iwork out and I’m feeling great and kicking my own ass and then, mid-plank, Ilook down at my legs and see the skin hanging off the thighs like anupside-down mountain range and I drop down onto my mat and feel likecrying. Of course I make myself get backup and keep going, but it’s gotten bad enough that I’m thinking about surgeryagain. And that was so not the point of trying to change my mindset.

I don’t know… hopefully I’m just in a bit of a depressionand I’ll come out of it soon. And as forthe book, I’m just crossing my fingers that the excited part of me will takeover some time soon, and the terrified part can go sit in the corner until it’sall over.

For now, all I can do is keep at it: working out,editing the book, and pretending everything’s fine in my heart. Because one day it will be fine again, anduntil then there’s no point upsetting the people around me. Especially my editor.

Exercising with the BF – A Validation Tale

2011-09-17T04:48:00.000-07:00

I have something to confess: I haven't worked out in a while. And by a while, I mean at least a couple of months. And by worked out, I mean anything besides walking around at a leisurely pace (that includes super low-key yoga/pilates).

Amazingly, I'm smaller/lighter right now than I was back in the spring, when I was much better about exercising (well, I say it's surprising, but I guess it's been the case 90% of the last ten years, so I don't know why I continue to be surprised), but nonetheless I've been feeling sluggish and soft lately, and last week I decided to get back on the horse.

A friend of mine on facebook has been doing a Jillian Michaels* workout, and she's been posting a lot about how exhausted it makes her and how much it hurts – my kind of workout, when I really want to get stuck in. I messaged her and we chatted back and forth about the video, and based on her review ("it kills, but it's only half an hour and it isn't boring") I bought it on itunes and tried it out the very same day.

Oh. My. Lord.

This video (the 6-week ab shred) is no joke. There were moves I couldn't even do, much less keep up with. But I got through it, and I felt proud of myself. And then came the next day – oh god I could barely move. My abs felt okay, but my thighs and back were killing me. I moaned and patted myself on the back about it to the BF, and he was duly sympathetic and also a bit interested. So I invited him to join me in doing the video this morning. And he actually agreed, and followed through!

It was awesome. Five minutes in, my already-sore muscles burning but my resolve strong, I looked over to see the BF, red in the face and looking stunned at the strength and agility expected of him. I chuckled and said "no joke, huh?" The rest of the workout was just as satisfying. He performed admirably: there were moves that I couldn't face with my sore body, which he managed to do, and there were moves which he sat down on the mat and watched, while I gave it a shot. The different weight and strength distributions of our bodies probably had something to do with that (plank moves are really extra hard when all your muscles and all your weight are in your hips/thighs).

When we finished, he collapsed and stared over at me, his eyes wide and rolling like an overworked horse. I felt so validated. Smug, even, which is unfair because the BF had never said anything to indicate that he thought my workouts were easy. But that didn't matter – I felt validated on behalf of all women, in the face of all men.

I've always felt like there was an attitude in the fitness world that women don't work as hard. That the vast majority of women get on the eliptical for 20 minutes, watch The Real World and get their heart rates up a bit, and then go do 50 crunches on the mat, grab a smoothie, and go about their day. Or they do yoga for an hour and go to lunch in their spandex. Even the cardio classes have a reputation for being dance-based, flounce-around excuses for exercise. Women just work out so they can eat without feeling guilty and shop for cute leggings and sports bras.

On the other hand, men's fitness routines are thought of as harder-core: running on a treadmill followed by heavy weight-lifting. Lots of sweat, lots of grunting, lots of old, stained, holey T-shirts. Men work out for fitness, and women just do it because they feel like they should.

Which is probably true, in a lot of cases. But one of the reasons they feel like they should work out is often because of the pressure they get to look a certain way. And, in general, it takes a LOT of work to look as good as we're told we should. It's hard, sweaty, exhausting stuff, trying to get thin and flabless. Most men, on the other hand, can run a few miles a day, be proud of their general physique and resting heart rate, and go on about their lives. No. Fair.

But looking good is only sort of why I do it, personally. I watch Jillian and her lackeys and I'm fully aware that there's no way in hell that I can ever wear spandex and not have a hint of muffin top. Those women are like 4% body fat, and that'll never happen to me – I'm convinced that even when I die and decompose, I'll still have rolls – but I also know that I can be stronger. Firmer. My arms can be more defined, and my ribcage can be less squishy. My collarbone can be more pronounced. I may never look great, but I can look better.

But it's a whole lot of work. And I'm willing to put it in (half the time) because it makes me feel better about myself. But I won't say it's not extra satisfying to know that my naturally strong, fit boyfriend feels the burn at least as much as I do (more, on some moves). Bless that boy and his sweaty, red, stunned face. He stuck with it, and I think I will too.

* I'm not a huge fan of Jillian Michaels, generally – the whole yelling at fat people who are trying their best thing really turns me off – but she's pretty good in this video. A bit annoying, but not so condescending or trying so hard to be a tough bitch.

PS You've read the pros of exercising with the BF, validation and companionship and all that, but the one big con is that he's there in the room with me when air bubbles escape during crunches. AWK.

The Isolating Side-Effect of GB

2011-06-04T04:38:00.000-07:00

Weight loss surgery is controversial. This isn't news. But what you may not realize is that it's not just controversial among thin or 'normal' people, but in the fat community as well.

Whenever I visit any sort of 'fat acceptance' website, I'm always startled by the attitude toward GB and surgeries like it (WLS, in short form). Today, I came across this interesting article on being a 'Smaller Fat' – the strange limbo that those of us who are BMI-defined as obese but who look 'normal' enough to pass – and I was all set to write a post about the main article. But then I read the comments.

One commenter talked about the strong support system she had at her workplace in the medical profession, where people understand that BMI isn't everything and fat people should be understood instead of tormented. Lovely, right? But then, in a parenthetical aside, she mentions that one of her supporters is a doctor who "had to autopsy a bunch of WLS victims" once, and therefore (it is assumed) is on the side of understanding fat rather than attempting to fight it.

The one that really got me, though, was the last sentence of a long and interesting comment on what the numbers really mean and how judged people feel as a result of their weight/BMI. The commenter made multiple valid points about the media and the overdramatization of the fat 'epidemic', and then she ended with this: "WLS - Sorry, not my preferred way of dying. *glares at doctor recommending it*"

It's kind of weird for me to read stuff like that. When I was considering the surgery, I never once considered that I might be betraying the fat community. I guess I never really felt like part of that community, to be fair, but somehow I still feel like they view me as a traitor.

After surgery, though, I find myself isolated twice: not just hovering in limbo between 'normal' and 'obese', but also feeling like I'm neither an accepted part of the thin world nor welcomed in the fat world.

I think that's a little bit ridiculous. Surely I feel a lot of the same injustices and anxieties as people in both camps. Women (and men) all over the world have issues with their bodies, and whether they resort to WLS, or go on the cabbage soup diet for a month, or just spend tons of time and energy and money on their appearance, I'd be willing to bet that nearly all of those people who weren't born with natural confidence have tried something to make them feel like they belong in their bodies.

The vilification of WLS in the fat community is counter-intuitive, to me. I get that they don't want to be pressured into it, but does that mean that everybody who has it is inherently weak or stupid? Willing to risk our lives for a chance at what we thought might be normalcy? It seems unnecessarily stubborn to me to refuse an opportunity to change what you can't accept about yourself, if only so that you can self-righteously fly the flag of self-acceptance in the face of those who took that chance.

I don't know. I'm not sure how to structure my thoughts on this issue, but I do sense another chapter forming in my mind. I'm not sure I can send my manuscript out without any comment on this strange limbo that some of us occupy. But if I can't even formulate a blog post coherently because I'm so mixed up, how on earth am I going to get a cohesive, 4000-word chapter out of it?

Do fat women have it worse than fat men?

2011-06-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

I've always said that being fat is harder on women than it is on men. Not only is there a lot more societal pressure to be stick thin rather than just healthy, which men don't seem to get, but it's a lot harder to be seen as physically attractive if you're even ten or fifteen pounds overweight.

Anyway, it seems I'm not the only one thinking these things. There's an article in the NYTimes today about overweight and obese women doing worse than men financially, an interesting angle on the effects of obesity, and in it they say:

Why doesn’t body size affect men’s attainment as much as women’s? One explanation is that overweight girls are more stigmatized and isolated in high school compared with overweight boys. Other studies have shown that body size is one of the primary ways Americans judge female — but not male — attractiveness. We also know that the social stigma associated with obesity is strongest during adolescence. So perhaps teachers and peers judge overweight girls more harshly. In addition, evidence suggests that, relative to overweight girls, overweight boys are more active in extracurricular activities, like sports, which may lead to stronger friendships and social ties. (Of course our study followed a particular group from career entry to retirement, and more study is needed to determine whether overweight girls finishing high school today face the same barriers, though these social factors suggest they do.)

That overweight women continue to trail men — including overweight men — in educational attainment in America is remarkable, given that women in general are outpacing men in college completion and in earning advanced degrees.

The article is here, if you want to read it. It's really interesting, and a completely new angle on the trials obese (and maybe even formerly obese) women face in our society. As if being labeled lazy, sloppy, and unfuckable isn't bad enough, heavy women also achieve less in life financially? Jesus. It's always a little bit heartening to see articles like this in a big paper like the NYTimes, though, because at least then I feel like people who wouldn't really give a thought to the consequences of obesity, beyond health and attractiveness, will see a little bit more of the myriad ways that something like fat permeates every aspect of a person's life in our society.

The Fear

2011-05-03T23:37:00.000-07:00

I had a total meltdown last night. Some of it was triggered by the usual stress (I just got back from a wonderful trip to SF, and I'm homesick and worried about catching up with work, and I had a massively important writing deadline yesterday), but mostly it was about the doctor's appointment I have tomorrow. And the weigh-in that awaits me there.

I know I've ranted about doctors before. And I've told you about this one, specifically. The short story is that if my BMI goes up one more point I'll be cut off from using Nuvaring, which is the only form of hormonal birth control I've ever tried that hasn't made me feel crazy and disinterested in sex. So I booked this appointment last month, making sure to make it for a day when I was unlikely to be PMSing and likely to be writing at home instead of in the office. But I didn't factor in the vacation beforehand; suffice it to say, my weight is not low enough that I feel totally confident strutting in there and coming out with a prescription in hand. It's not above the line, but it's within 5 pounds, which for me is basically on it since I gain/lose 5 pounds randomly by the hour.

But I'm getting away from the point. The important thing about last night's meltdown was the way I reacted to this stress: I was finally honest about it. I wasn't angry or righteously indignant. I wasn't just stressed out about my weight. I was terrified.

I'm terrified of doctors. And I'm terrified that I'll never not be terrified of them. After all those years of being obese and dreading doctor's visits because of the weigh-in and inevitable following lecture, after everything I've done to and been through with my body to make it 'healthy' enough to allow me to relax about it, I'm still terrified. They still weigh me, and they still don't like what they see on the scale. I still get lectures about losing weight, and sometimes they continue even after I've explained my history and my current lifestyle.

The thing is, while I'm scared of the lectures and afraid of the shaming and the judgment, what I'm really afraid of is that they might be right. Maybe I really am still unhealthy? Obese? Massively fat and in denial? If they never change their opinion, if doctors all over the world look at me and think I'm fine, if overweight, and then weigh me and decide I'm obese and need to be shamed, then what is it that I'm missing when I tell myself to ignore the scale and focus on feeling/looking good?

I believe myself: I should focus on how I feel, not what I weigh. I also believe them: I'm huge and disgusting and socially unacceptable and I should worry about losing 50 pounds. I believe us both, and it scares the shit out of me.

I don't want to live my life this way. With 2 choices: be obsessively dieting / trying to lose weight all the time, or avoid / fear doctors and all other weigh-ins until the day you die. I also don't want to become schizophrenic as a result of my two minds on the matter. I just want to be normal.

Wasn't that the point of the surgery in the first place?

You go girlfriend, UH HUH!

2011-04-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, I don't really get the obsession with the dancing/skating/dogwalking with the stars franchise, but I do read gossip blogs and they like to talk about these reality/competition shows, so I've sort of been watching things unfold.

So I've been aware of Kirsty Alley's big comeback, and I've been secretly rooting for her– after the rags have been all over her for her weight these past few years, I figure she probably needs a confidence boost (although maybe I'm projecting). At the same time, though, I've been sort of holding my breath, waiting for Youtube to explode with videos of her falling and her thighs jiggling in slo-mo and all that terrible stuff people love to make viral.

But as my favorite snarkblogger, Michael K, has put it, Kirsty is dancing her Thetans off! She's been shaking it way harder (and way better) than a lot of the skinny bitches out there, and in a weird, detached, uninterested-in-her-up-to-now kind of way, I'm so proud!

I just wanted to share. Oh, and they've been putting her in some nice little knee-length numbers, too (I was afraid they'd have her in hideous maxis that totally swamped her), and between a glimpse of leg and seeing her next to a normal-sized human being, it's shown her in a much more flattering light than we're used to. Which I think is important, so that the world looks at her and thinks 'curvy' instead of 'heffalump', which is what the rags have been trying to paint her as.

So, in summation, Kirsty, keep on shaking it! And please, keep showing the world that hips are awesome, especially in the world of dance!

This is my life.

2011-04-02T05:06:00.001-07:00

I'm in the dressing room at Anthropologie, and so far I've tried a
size 8 jacket (too big), a size 14 dress (too small), a size medium
dress (fits, but not cute), a size 12 dress (a bit too big), another
size 12 dress (way too small), a size 10 dress (perfect everywhere but
a bit small in the boobs), and 2 more size 12 dresses (1 perfect and 1
a bit too big).

Sigh...

Sent from my erstwhile fancypants, now outdated iPhone 3G

On Remembering

2011-03-04T06:59:00.000-08:00

Writing all these chapters about my life and my body is kind of intense. Last week, I wrote about a panic attack I had over my body three years ago, and I could feel my pulse racing as I wrote it; re-living the experience actually made me have another mini-attack.

It's amazing how much I seem to have blocked from memory. The smell of surgery recovery, the pain, both emotional and physical, that I've continuously put myself through in the fruitless pursuit of bodily normalcy... but I've forgotten good things as well.

Today I was writing about my recovery from plastic surgery, specifically abdominoplasty and brachioplasty (arms). And I was remembering the horrible, excruciating pulling at my stomach, and the fear that if I made one wrong move my belly would split open and all my insides would tumble out. But I was also surprised to remember how happy I was after those surgeries, and how confident.

The accompanying lipo made me retain so much water, I was beyond bloated. But that meant that my skin was so much firmer than usual, borderline taut even! And I was thrilled. It's funny how I kind of wish I could have those firm thighs back, even though they were only smooth because they were basically water balloons. But I was also confident because, for the first time in my life, I had two body parts that I felt I could sort of show off: my arms and my newly flat stomach. Sure, my as was still awful and my boobs were still saggy and uneven, but my belly was smooth and my arms no longer jiggled like an old lady's, and that, to me, was beyond awesome.

Before the plastic surgery, even after I'd lost a hundred pounds, I would read those women's mag articles advising readers to 'highlight the good areas' and think what good areas? To me, every part of my body was disgusting. But after my plastic surgeries, I finally felt like I had some good areas to show off.

And that pleasure is something worth remembering.

Another day, another doctor

2011-01-18T04:48:00.000-08:00

Well, in fairness, this one was a nurse. And she was pretty cool. But the numbers were still assholes.

A little background: I'm still in London, and not going home as often / uninsured in the States, so I decided it was well past time to try to get my birth control on the NHS. So I went into the clinic affiliated with my Uni. And of course they had to weigh/measure me. And of course my BMI says I'm obese.

Fuck off, BMI. Obese?? Ok, I could lose a few stone, but if you're seriously telling me I have to lose 50 pounds to be within the range of 'normal,' you're off your rocker. I'm a size 12, for god's sake! I know it's not slender, but it's certainly not obese either!

I'm so sick of being controlled by numbers. Even the nurse, when I told her I'd had weight-loss surgery and had been leveling out within 10 pounds of my current weight for the past 9 years, said she thought the numbers were a bit silly as they don't take bone density / muscle mass into account. But I'm well aware, as is she, that numbers matter to a bureaucracy. And the NHS is nothing if not a bureaucracy.

So the bottom line is this: if my BMI goes up less than a point (so, at my height, if I gain 2kg), the NHS won't let me have a mixed-hormone birth control, which is what I currently use and like.

But then, if I'm obese, I guess nobody wants to fuck me anyway, right? So why would I need birth control?

Whatever. At least if I get pregnant the British government will give me money. But then I'd have to have a kid. Ew.

So I guess it's back to calorie counting and trying to fit workouts into my already insane schedule. Eating right and walking all over London never seems to be good enough for the numbers.

Carnie Wilson is over it.

2010-12-16T09:36:00.000-08:00

Carnie Wilson, the woman who made Gastric Bypass famous by streaming video of her operation online, has been through a few ups and downs (and a few book deals, and People magazine covers...) in the past 10 years. But I hadn't seen much of her the past few years, until now.

A few days ago, I was cruising my favorite gossip site, DListed, and I came across a little blurb about Carnie. She hasn't been in the news much, so I'd assumed she was just getting on with her life. But I guess she's probably been trying to stay out of the public eye, since she's gained back a good bit of the weight she lost twice: first right after the surgery, and again a few years later after putting it back on.

So. Finally, someone in the public sphere admits that GB isn't the SKINNY SOLUTION everybody thinks it is. I feel validated, and relieved, even as I feel kind of sorry for Carnie; she went through all the ups and downs with the media watching, and even though she kind of did it to herself, I still think it probably made her feel even worse when she 'failed.' I think she's got mad body issues, even just based on her calling herself "fat as fuck", and I think that, as hard as it is for anyone who goes through massive weight issues in her life, doing it in a fishbowl probably amplifies those issues for her.

The thing is, I see these magazine covers with people who've dropped all this weight, and it's always made me feel like I failed from the outset, because I never got below a size 12. But maybe that's the path to success, when it comes to GB. I can't help thinking that the weight creeps back on because too much came off in the first place. Not in terms of people getting 'too skinny,' but more in terms of dropping below the weight at which certain people's bodies level out. As Carnie herself says: "we are who we are"– I definitely believe that. And even though I'm often disappointed that I didn't lose more weight with GB, some part of me is relieved that I also haven't gained back a lot (besides the 20lb fluctuations that I can't seem to stop!).

The reason people yo-yo is that bodies are different; the minute you try to force your body into a size it wasn't meant to be, you're beginning the process of yo-yo-ing, because almost nobody can sustain the level of discipline required to keep a body at a different weight than it 'wants' to be. So you're almost doomed to fail as soon as you start, unless your goal is just to be healthy and fit and damn the size of your pants.

I'm not sure how articulate I'm being right now– I've had this post open on my computer for days, waiting for my cold to chill out (hehe) so I could think straight, but it ain't happening. The point is, GB isn't the fairytale 'easy way out' that people seem to think it is. It's a kickstart, and a great way of conditioning yourself to eat better foods and care more about your body, but it sure as hell is not a cure-all for fat. Especially when 'fat' is defined by whether or not you fit into a size 6 miniskirt.

A Jeans Wake-Up Call

2010-12-07T01:07:00.000-08:00

I'm wearing jeans today, for the first time since... I can't even
remember. Spring, maybe?

You guys know how big of a deal this is for me. I didn't want to do
it, but it's 28 degrees in London right now and I can't even begin to
describe how sick I am of tights and leggings. So I bit the bullet.
The last time I tried on my jeans, I could barely button the 'normal'
pair. The fat jeans I bought a little over a year ago, though, felt
great. Only one problem: they're way too long! Which I don't remember
being a problem when I first bought them... But it must have been,
unless I've got the horrible shrinks.

Anyway, that day I gave up and went for the leggings/dress combo
again. But today, after I got my shit together and got the flat ready
for our housekeeper, I only had 10 minutes to throw something on. So I
held my breath, closed my eyes, and pulled on the 'normals'. And,
amazingly, they fit!

Ok, so they're a bit tight, but they're not awful, and actually my ass
looks pretty good in them (!!). But as I was strutting out of my
building, feeling pleasantly surprised by my body's cooperation, I got
a sharp reminder of the other reason I almost never wear jeans.

My abdomen was hit with a deep, searing pain. I'd conveniently
forgotten how badly even the slightest tight waistband hurts my
stomach. On the left side, about an inch above my tummy tuck scar, and
what feels like 2 inches below the skin, it feels like someone has
taken a blunt icepick and shoved it into an open wound.
It's gnarly. It's also why I never wear jeans, even loose ones, for
long flights or road trips. It doesn't matter how many times I flash a
flight attendant or freeze my legs off in the cold air from my dad's
always-open window; that other way lies excruciating pain, and I do my
best to avoid it.

Today, though, I don't have a choice. I can't go back to my flat until
10:30 at the earliest. So if you see a pear-shaped girl waddling (oh,
yeah, I also have a pulled hip muscle) around London with her pants
unbuttoned this morning, cut her a fashion police break-- she's
probably just trying to ease the pain.

Cheers.

Sent from my fancypants iPhone (so please excuse any typos)

More fat hatred, and some interesting backlash

2010-10-26T14:47:00.000-07:00

Last month I posted about a new (then) TV show called 'Mike and Molly', about two chunky people in luurve. I thought it was probably a good idea for the media to try portraying fat people as real human beings who fall in love and make out and shit, but apparently some people are offended by it. Seems the mere thought of two fatties getting in each others' atmospheres is enough to make some skinny bitches hurl. Maura Kelly, for one.

Now, I'm not really interested in telling you my thoughts on the matter, because I think you can probably guess them (if not, I'll sum up: I hate my body, and think it's fat and therefore disgusting, but I also believe that anyone and everyone has a right to get it on with a consenting adult, and I definitely don't think two fat people is any grosser an image than two old people or two teenagers or two of anybody whose naked coupling isn't thrust at us from tv and movie screens on a regular basis). Ok, so I kind of told you my thoughts. But the point was, I think The Bloggess's thoughts were a much better example of what thoughts should be: thoughtful.

And that's all I'm going to say for tonight, except this: go you commenters! Some of those 'oh, snap!' moments on Maura's original article were pretty damn priceless. People who have a hard time with their appearances are usually pretty clever. Let that be a lesson to all fattists out there. Intellectually, we will best you.

Fat travel

2010-10-26T11:50:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of chatter in the media lately about the trials and tribulations of traveling under the influence of a couple (hundred?) extra pounds. And somewhere between Kevin Smith being kicked off Southwest Airlines and the constant barrage of fat-fear and obesity epidemic outcry, a few pieces have emerged that put a chubbily human face on the matter (without too much whining or crying).

I think I'm going to start linking to such pieces (if only to keep the blog alive for a while as every remotely interesting original thought goes straight into the 'book' file). First up, Traveling While Fat, from last weekend's NY Times. It's a pretty good start down the 'fat is human' road, although I have to wonder whether a woman could write something so matter of fact, with so little apology for her size.

Lord knows I couldn't. Hence, the GB, and now, the memoir in which I constantly express a need to apologize for my still-unacceptable size.

Sighs.

Television gains a few pounds in my esteem

2010-09-20T13:08:00.000-07:00

There have been very few fat (ie normal to overweight) people on television in my lifetime, and the ones who did grace my HD were usually the subject of a reality show. If I saw someone above a size 4, s/he was either on a scary documentary about morbid obesity (I'm not making light of that, by the way, although the fear tactics rub me the wrong way), or part of a competition to lose weight faster than other heavy people (I know some of you really love The Biggest Loser, but I still think it's a bit cruel), or, once and never again (yet), a Bachelor-esque competition to win the heart of a meaty man who digs 'curvy women.'

But regardless of how I feel about the portrayal of fat people on television, the shows that pack a bit more poundage must be doing pretty well, since they're multiplying every year. I can think of at least 4 get-fit shows, where BL used to be the only one. TLC has upped its number of weight-centric fear documentaries, too. And now fictional shows are starting to catch on, it seems.

First was Huge, which is set in a fat camp and is borderline terrible. The acting isn't great, but then again, how can you blame young actors who probably could never get a role until this show? The writing can tend toward clichè, but that's forgiven by the occasional snappy comeback or poignant description of a body part. In general, actually, it's a pretty decent show, and although certain aspects of the plot are totally ridiculous (a camper-counselor relationship at fat camp? Really??), the fact that it regularly gives me flashbacks to my own experience with weight loss camp means there must be some serious authenticity going on. I won't lie: I make the effort to watch every episode online.

And now there's a new sitcom coming out called Mike and Molly, about an overweight couple. And based on the NYTimes review, it sounds like it might do a nice job of straddling the line between being all about the fat and being a regular sitcom (which would ignore the two elephants in the room). Now that's something Huge doesn't really do. Huge's plot lines and character relationships depend on the fat; it's the best part of the show. But if MandM can show the effect that the main characters' weight problems have on their everyday lives without making it out like fat is all they are, then we just might have a real show on our hands. Not a reality show, but a show that demonstrates the reality of being overweight through fiction.

Because isn't it often the case that fiction demonstrates reality more accurately than the truth? (Well, I hope that won't be the case with my nonfiction memoir, obviously...) All I know is, every little step toward balancing the scales on tv, in magazines, and generally in the media is a good thing. And shows about how obese people can't stand and get bedsores don't count as an accurate representation of the weight problem that most people in America and the UK and now even France (HA) are facing. But hopefully these fictional shows will.

Ya THINK?

2010-09-02T16:05:00.000-07:00

My best friend is getting married on Sunday, and I've been having serious anxiety about being the fattest person at the wedding. I guess I've been yammering about how I look a lot, because yesterday I was nattering on about how if my roots are dyed and my brows are waxed then maybe I won't mind being such a tub of lard, and my mom looked over at me with a raised eyebrow and went "Boy, you've still got issues, huh?"

Is it rude to shout DUH in the face of one's elders? Well, I just laughed and said "What was your first clue?" Then told her I'd be entering therapy as soon as I can afford it (so basically never).

Oh well, I guess it's good to know she's finally noticed...

Location location location

2010-08-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

I've been home in San Francisco for exactly 2.5 days. I've been in Napa with my parents and my sister for less than a full day. I'm already locking myself in my room and crying.

Not because they're torturing me (at least not on purpose), but because being here with my mom and my sister, and sometimes even my dad, is just a constant reminder of how I'm too fat, and too disgusting, and worst of all too complacent.

I spend much of my time, when I'm in London with my boyfriend, trying to come to terms with my body at the weight where it levels out. I try to eat healthily and be active, but not diet or follow an exercise regime, and then accept the weight and size where my body seems comfortable. It doesn't always work, but it feels like I'm at least trying to break out of my cage of fucked-up body issues.

Then I come home. And I'm surrounded by talk of 'points' and boxes of weight-watchers-approved snacks. And my mom and sister spend every day exercising together and talking about diets and sizes and weight. And I try to ignore it, but it worms under my skin like a chigger, laying eggs and then dying and festering until I itch so much that I end up scratching until I bleed.

And I try to accept things as they are, and I stop fighting, and I agree to go on a long walk with them along the highway in Napa. And I dig through the clothes I store up here for something I can exercise in. And I find a pair of shorts from college that don't fit. And I find another pair that do, sort of. And I tell myself that I don't really look as hideous as I think.

And my mom and my sister avoid the question of whether I look hideous, and tell me that it doesn't matter what I look like. And I try to explain. And they don't listen. And they don't understand.

And I lock myself in my room and cry like the 15 year old fatty that I still am.

The one sacrifice I never considered...

2010-07-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

It’s not exactly the perfect end to a perfect meal at one of New York’s best restaurants, on my knees in a beautiful, dark wood paneled bathroom,* throwing up house-made raspberry truffles into a once pristine toilet, while cool lounge music plays softly in the background. I’m just praying nobody can hear me, and also that the auto-flush won’t go off in my face.

Sometimes I wish I could turn the GB off. Not so I can binge on Ben & Jerry’s, or stuff my face with ballpark hotdogs, but for special meals like Per Se in New York or Ristorante Semplice in London. It would be nice to be able to have a set menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant without spending the rest of the evening either curled on my side (best-case) or throwing up (worst-case). But it would be worse to miss out on all the amazing food on offer!

And drink. Wine takes up a surprising amount of space in my stomach, especially rich reds like the delicious Barolos my bf likes to order (and I’d love to drink more of)! My poor guy is usually responsible for at least 2/3 of every gorgeous bottle he orders when we go out, and while I know he doesn’t always mind drinking so much, I also know it disappoints him to see my glass go undrained when he’s put so much thought into the selection.

I think of my stomach like a pair of spandex bike shorts: designed to be slimming, but not always effective; elastic, but only to a point; losing elasticity with time and wear. And as much as I know it’s my job to keep those (very expensive) spanx in tiptop shape, there are definitely times when I wish I could take them off.

* That was the second time I’d visited Per Se’s loo, and I must say, the first time, when I just went to pee as usual, I was not so psyched to find myself sitting on the toilet, facing a full-length mirror and a view of my massive, grosso hips hanging precariously over the edges of the seat. Not impressed.

.

On whales and food metaphors.

2010-07-01T04:54:00.000-07:00

The other night, the bf and I were watching this show called “Inside Nature’s Giants,” which we didn’t realize at first involves dissecting the big-ass animals of land and sea. We chose to watch the episode about whales, because they’re frickin fascinating and also because I love tigers too much to watch one get cut up. But I wish we had chosen the tigers, because the whole time they were slicing through the whale, and the fatty, slippery flesh was sliding all over the beach, and the scientists were covered in grease, I kept thinking about my body. How that was probably what I looked like when the doctors were slicing me up and pulling off hunks of my blubber. How that's still what my body feels like in places: loose, slippery, uncontained.

My classmates are always saying I have a very ‘descriptive’ touch when it comes to talking about my body, and my friend N pointed out that I frequently use food metaphors/similes, which is kind of interesting. But I’m not sure it means anything. Basically I find my own flesh to be so freakish and repugnant that I can’t think of anything to relate it to besides oozy, schloopy foods. It’s certainly nothing like anybody else’s flesh I’ve ever seen.

I don’t really have a thought-out blog post in me about this, I just thought it was interesting and worth sharing. After all, the point of this blog is to let you in on my sick, fucked-up mind and my twisted way of thinking about my body, right?

Mission accomplished.

Showdown in Mexico: Gorda VS Contenta

2010-06-01T03:25:00.000-07:00

The lovely bf took me to Mexico a couple of months ago, and I started a blog post there. Obviously, I never finished it, because I was distracted by the beautiful pool and our personal pastry class and the delectable food everywhere we turned, but I looked at it again today and realized that the subject I wanted to touch on is still worth discussing.

Basically, I started the post with a photo of the amazing resort where we were staying. And I mean AMAZING. I’ve never before in my life stayed at a hotel so beautiful and comfortable and just plain stunning that I didn’t want to leave the compound walls. I’m all about real Mexico– the people, the culture, the food– but I had absolutely no desire to leave ever. I could seriously live in this amazing place.

This is important for you to know, not so I can brag, but so you can understand how pissed off I was to still feel like such a fat cow. I mean, here I was, with my own private villa with its own private POOL, and the only person who saw my cellulite was my boyfriend, who couldn’t keep his hands off it, but I was periodically miserable. And it was only sporadic because I refused to let myself sink into fat tears more than once a day. Any more often would be a disrespect to the resort.

It was just so frustrating. This was beyond a doubt the most romantic holiday I’ve had in the past few years, and yet I couldn’t stop feeling like I was disgusting and fat and didn’t deserve it. Which, if I’d let it, could easily have ruined the vacation for both of us. And it threatened to, a few times. But luckily the bf managed to walk the very high tightrope between acknowledging my insanity and encouraging it; he did a wonderful job making me feel heard but still putting his foot down and not letting me wallow.

In the end, it was still an amazing experience. But it was also a wake-up call as to how much my body image still holds me back. And I’d say I need to get help with my attitude, but instead all I keep thinking is how much thinner I need to get, and how much more nipping and tucking I need. And I know that in and of itself is a sign of psychosis, but I guess I’m too far gone to believe it. All I know for sure is that I’m too fat for the world of luxury, and to be honest it shouldn’t be that much work to enjoy a beautiful, romantic holiday with my handsome, attentive, funny, adorable boyfriend.

I’m really scared that one of these days he’ll lose that patience that’s become a hallmark of our relationship, and where will I be without him? Selfish, I know– obviously I’d be devastated to lose him in general, but I’m also terrified that the body issues would spiral out of control without him around. Maybe that’s a sign I need a therapist (like there weren’t enough signs already!), but I really don’t want to establish a relationship with a shrink over here because I’m only going to move back to the states and have to find a new one in a year. Maybe I should go back to my old high school shrink in SF and just have phone appointments? I’m not sure I can afford her though…

OK I’m rambling, but the point is that even though I feel like I’m slowly getting better, every now and then I get a wake-up call to how bad the state of my mind really is. Hopefully one day I’ll be stable enough (financially and locationally) to find a good therapist, but until then I can only hope that writing this book will help me work out some of my issues on my own.

I never thought I'd THANK a blogger for putting up bikini pics of a celeb...

2010-05-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

... but the dude over at Egotastic has finally posted photos of someone above a size 2.* Not only that, he defends her hotness against those people who would say she's too fat to be attractive in a bikini! AND since the blog doesn't have a comments section, I can just pretend that's the end of it. No trolls! Hooray huzzah and yippeeee!

That is all.**

* Yes, I'm aware she's probably still only a size 6 or something, but just let me have my moment anyway.

**Okay, yes, I am aware that I haven't posted in forever. There's a post-in-waiting about my recent trip to Mexico (and bikinis), but this was more pressing, and less work, so you'll just have to wait for the mexico post.

My worst fears realized.

2010-03-24T01:36:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and checked my twitter account (yes, I know), and one of the first things I saw was a link to this post by a writer named Amy Alkon (I'll let you read it instead of summarizing). Amy writes with wild abandon about all the people who annoy her in life, and usually I appreciate her no-holds-barred approach. But this time, I felt she went too far. Not because she's being cruel to a fat person, but because she's being cruel unnecessarily. And, more importantly, unfunnily. And it's not just her; the commenters on the post have their fangs out too.

And I don't get it. I mean, I get it: this chick gained 40 lbs and her boyfriend doesn't sleep with her anymore, so obviously she needs to lose weight (or lose the guy, which nobody seemed to think was an option for this obviously morbidly obese woman). What I don't get is the poison. Why do people have so much hatred in their hearts for fat people? What is it about fatties that offends them so? I mean, besides their visible girth, but if this girl put on 40 pounds, unless she's 5'2" that's not going to make her a whale. Just chunky.

The venom with which people discuss fat never ceases to startle the shit out of me. Would you talk that way about somebody with a different color of skin, or a cleft palate? Ok, ok, those things aren't "your own fault." Then would you speak with such acrimony about a woman who cultivates her hairy chin instead of shaving it? Or a man who chooses to walk around starkers despite having a teeny weenie? Oh, I know, you'd laugh and point (wouldn't we all?), but would you hate them for existing?

In the 4 years I've been with my bf, I've fluctuated about 20 pounds. Up, down, sideways. I haven't gotten so big or small as to need a total wardrobe change, but I have had to buy a new pair of jeans (and wear them for 5 minutes before the weight fell off and my 60 bucks was wasted). And my bf has always wanted to have sex with me, often much to my busy chagrin! Again, I'm not saying this chick's bf isn't entitled to his sexual taste, but he damn well should man up and let her know if he's no longer attracted to her. It can't just be assumed that weight gain will put your partner off (I can show you the erection to prove it).

Some women spend years in a relationship watching what they eat for the sake of their man, rather than their own personal pride or health, only to get married and 'let themselves go.' Isn't it better to find out early on if weight gain is a dealbreaker? I mean, some of us are probably going to gain some weight after having kids and need a GB update (I'm seriously terrified of this)!

Ok, now I'm getting a bit off track. Bear with me; I haven't had my tea yet. Really I'm just wondering if someone can tell me why thin people hate fat people so much? I mean, don't fat people do enough hating themselves? The job is overdone, people! Go home!

Curves are... good?

2010-03-10T13:18:00.000-08:00

These days, curves are infinitely preferable to straight up-and-down body types. Or so we're told. But we're also told that said curves have to be wee and firm, taut and high, perfectly rounded and impeccably proportioned. So all those curvy chicks out there, flaunting their J-Lo asses and Christina Hendricks breasts (DROOOL), and ostensibly shattering the myth of Twiggy, serve less to comfort me than as an even higher standard of sex appeal which I'll never reach.

As a result, I often feel disappointed when I buy a dress I think looks great on me, only to see it on the model (or mannequin), with her (its) perfect, bounce-a-quarter-off-that-ass curves and realize that the dress only looks great on me in comparison to other items in my closet. From a more objective, overall, survey-the-world sort of view, it looks just ok, mostly due to my many lumps and bumps, and my massive hips.

BUT. This past weekend, I was in New York with the bf, and he insisted on going into the big, beautiful Anthropologie in SoHo, and of course I found two beautiful dresses to buy. One was a sale item; the only size left was a 10, which fit, but wasn't very flattering (read: pancake titties)– the loverly sales staff managed to find the dress for me in a 12, in Baton Rouge, and sent it off to my SF house. The second fit perfectly as soon as I put it on, and is immensely flattering– the waist looks teeny, the bazongas look massive, and the hips look lump-and-bump-free! Amazing.

Even more amazing, though, is the fact that when I went online to find photos of the dresses to send to friends, I realized that I looked better in them than the dressmaker's dummies!! Who knew it was possible?!

Turns out, extreme curves (and my hips are definitely extreme) can be an asset. Case in point: the dresses in question look kind of boring, and even a little boxy (still ADORABLE, though), in the photos:

Whereas, on me, well let's just say VA VA VOOM.

And thank god for that, because I really needed a body boost. Things have been bleak and blubbery lately, so even though this dress discovery may not seem exactly post-worthy to you, I'll take anything I can get these days!

Why I hate the airlines. All of them.

2010-02-16T04:12:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago (on Valentine’s day, in fact), Kevin Smith was kicked off a Southwest Airlines plane for being ‘too fat to fly.’ You can read the details on Kevin’s blog, if you haven’t already been following the debacle on Twitter (I say debacle in seriousness– Twitter crashed at least twice last night as a result of ‘too many tweets’).

This isn’t a post about that occurrence specifically, mostly because it’s already been hashed out to death but also because Smith’s whole point is that he doesn’t actually qualify as too fat to fly; he fits in the seat with the armrests down and the seatbelt buckled, unextended. What I want to talk about is the policy, held by multiple airlines, that those ‘customers of size’ (I think I threw up a little just now) who can’t fit in the seat with the armrests down must purchase two seats at full price.

Look, I get it. It sucks to have someone encroaching on your space, especially on an airplane, where space is already at such a premium. I’ve been there. I’ve sat next to huge dudes who take up not only the whole armrest but also a good 4 inches of my side past it with their hammy arms. I’ve also sat next to really tall people whose legs come a full foot (no pun intended) into my legroom. They can’t help it. Either party.

On a recent 10-hr flight across the Atlantic, I sat behind a family of three who had the whole bulkhead row. The minute the plane was in the air, the mother commandeered a whole OTHER row to lie down in, while the father immediately put his seat all the way back into my space. The kid, meanwhile, turned on his ipod touch and started playing a video game at full volume. I curled up with my headphones in and tried to get some sleep. This was not to be. Dad was super antsy, bouncing around in his seat (which stayed all the way back the entire flight, even when he moved for 2 hours to sit with a business friend and conduct a conference at full volume with the cabin lights out), and the kid played games, off and on, the whole time too. At one point I went to the bathroom and passed the mom, sleeping peacefully in her very own row while her beastly family terrorized the front of the cabin. I nearly bit her.

What I’m saying is that flying coach blows. Always. It’s scary and dangerous (if you’re afraid of it, as I am) and hideously uncomfortable. You’re surrounded by other people, which inevitably means rudeness and self-absorption abound. Granted, sitting next to a fat person makes it that much worse, but to be honest I’d take a row of elephants before I’d sit anywhere NEAR that family again (seriously, I didn’t want to take up another paragraph describing them, but I totally could have). Most fat people I’ve sat next to (and this was true of me too when I was fat) do their damndest to fold inward– one guy spent the entire flight with his arms crossed, which couldn’t have been good for his circulation but made my life a little easier.

What I’m saying is not that we have to ignore the fact of heavier people encroaching on other people’s space on planes. I do think it’s a problem, and I think something should be done about it (to be fair, though, I’d like to have a federal rudeness marshal on every flight too). But what shouldn’t be allowed is blind discrimination and unfair costs.

Buying two seats is WAY over the top. At most, a ‘customer of size’ (yelch) should have to pay for one and a half seats. If the airlines insist on making seats smaller and smaller, then it’s totally unfair for them to expect larger people to cough up twice the fare for one flight.

I think the answer is to face the facts: people are made in different shapes and sizes. Why not design airplanes accordingly? Why not have a couple of rows of larger seats? Maybe a few with narrow seat but more legroom? And then charge more (but not TWICE THE FARE) for those seats? Hell, I’d pay more to be able to sit cross-legged in my seat.

Flying is never going to be comfortable or fun again (in coach). I’ve accepted that. But there are things the airlines could be doing to make people like me HATE THEM LESS and make people like Kevin Smith feel respected by them.

For me, the crux of the issue is this: fat is the last physical characteristic on which it’s allowable to discriminate. It’s unthinkable to whine about the person next to you with the oxygen tank that takes up your floorspace, or the dude across the aisle who doesn’t deodorize for religious reasons and therefore smells like an exhausted yak, but the fat guy in the window seat is fair game because “it’s his fault he’s fat.” Regardless of your opinion on fault (I think you know mine), the truth is there’s nothing he can do about it in a short time period. Stinkbomb could shower, oxygen lady could put the tank on her lap, but fatty fatty 2 by 4 isn’t going to be able to magically drop 200 pounds in the month between buying his ticket and boarding the plane.

Which means that basically what all the people out there on the side of discrimination are saying is that fat people just shouldn’t be able to fly. These comments always have a tone of “well, I’m sorry, but that’s just your punishment for being fat.” It’s so smug and self-righteous that I could spit. And I’d bet everything I have that people who make such thoughtless comments have never been fat. They’ve probably had to lose 10 pounds for a reunion and think that’s the same, though.

Ok, before I work myself up way too much, I’ll condense my thoughts to this one sentence: I understand both sides, and I know there’s a problem, but scapegoating fat people is not the solution.

It’s the airlines that have screwed us into these tiny corners of space. Maybe instead of airing our revulsion about fat we should be grabbing our torches and pitchforks and advancing on the people who design these ridiculous metal money-cages!

I suppose any starting point is a good starting point...

2010-02-04T15:22:00.000-08:00

    Yesterday, I wrote a piece for class about my childhood in Manhattan Beach, and more specifically about how my brother and I used to sneak out to the mini mart down the road and buy candy behind my mom’s back. I tried to make the piece funny, but I think it just turned out uncomfortable, because that’s exactly how I felt writing it, like I was peeling back my skin and showing the world my big gaping flaw: I like sweets. In fact, as a kid I was mildly obsessed with them, but even now I’m a huge fan (as evidenced by my baking blog). And I hate that my sweet tooth makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, because to me it’s the strongest evidence the prosecution could cite in the case against the fatty– clearly I wasn’t fat because I ate too much asparagus.

    And it doesn’t matter that I love asparagus now, or that I’ll often pass up a rich chocolate cake for a plate of grilled zucchini, because the fact remains that I also still love me some dessert. Which makes me feel like I haven’t reformed enough, like a sinner who’s born again but still likes to have the occasional gay orgy on weekends. Part of me wants to shout at myself “it’s all or nothing, chubbo! There’s no halfway in weight loss!”

    But of course that’s the crux of it: I haven’t come far enough, haven’t gotten thin enough to be allowed to eat sweets as often as I do. I don’t think I’ll ever be thin enough though– certainly not at this rate, given that I refuse to give up sweets! Or buffalo mozzarella. Or fassone steak at Ristorante Semplice. Sigh. This just brings us back to the same old question…

    The good news is I finally have a piece of writing that might fit into my book. I want to do a chapter on the different attitudes towards food in my family, and the different ways in which my thin brother and I were treated with regard to food. And I really want to put some funny things in there (like the time my brother convinced my health nut mom to buy cookie crisp cereal, or the way we used to hoard “cookie crackers,” the slightly sweet whole wheat crackers my parents would put out with cheese for guests… god our dessert options were pathetic!). In fact, ideally the whole book will be laced with funny bits, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

    PS sorry this piece is so rambly. It’s late and I have dishes to do. SIGH.

This book stuff is harder than it seems...

2010-02-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change. I thought it would be so easy. I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative?

NOT, that's how easy. I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting. And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless. And that's not the only surprise stumbling block...

When I tell people what I'm writing about, they all seem shocked and impressed that I'm willing to talk so openly about my body insecurities. They seem to think that's something most people would be uncomfortable with strangers reading. But I have no problems with that; strangers I'll never meet can know everything about my psychotic mind and I'll have no idea, so what's the big deal? What I didn't predict, and am having some serious issues with, is the whole classroom experience.

When we workshop our pieces in class, not only do our classmates read them, but we then read them aloud and discuss. This is extremely helpful, but it's also extremely difficult sometimes, like when you've written an on-the-fly piece describing in detail the hideousness of your ass. Yes, I did that. Last week. It was awkward to read aloud, and I kind of wanted to cry, and it was hard to convince myself that everyone in the room wasn't staring at my ass on the way out. But I did it.

It gave me pause, though. Writing has always been my favorite way to sort out my shit, get down feelings that I'm too embarassed to talk to someone about– the BF and I do some of our best relationship convos via email because we're not afraid to say things when the other person isn't staring back at us crying. The distance between writer and reader is my safety net. I'm much more comfortable writing a post here about my sex life or my jiggly shoulders than I am reading that same post aloud to a group of people I see twice a week.

And it's not just them. If this book (if I ever write it) does get published, my family might read it. I mean, they might not– they've never been the most interested in my writing– but if they do, and I've written about my mom's issues with body dysmorphia or my sister's terrible eating habits and sudden weight loss through thyroid medication, they might be hurt. But isn't that a memoirist's duty, to plow on without worrying about hurting people? I've kind of always thought that if the book is 85% me humiliating myself and 15% me humiliating others, then they should be able to forgive me, but humiliation isn't really relative, is it?

Gah. The more I think about all this the more I feel like I can't write this book. My teacher quoted somebody (she couldn't remember who) in class last week regarding the writing process: "successful writing requires an extremely high tolerance for imperfection in the early stages and an extremely low tolerance for it in the late stages." She was referring to the writing itself, and that certainly applies to me (I'm such a perfectionist about this stuff that I stop myself from getting anything done in the first place because it's never good enough), but I also think it applies to content and people you may hurt in the end. Best to worry about that stuff when the manuscript's first draft is finished, I suppose.

Ugh, but how can it ever be finished if I never start it?!

Forget the clothes, watch for the therapy!

2010-01-08T23:04:00.000-08:00

For a couple of years now, I’ve been a big fan of the TV show What Not To Wear. I find Clinton adorable and Stacy just mean enough, and I almost always agree with their style choices (I seriously spend half the show trying to figure out where Stacy gets her dresses and shoes!). And I was hooked for life when I realized that they’re not at all sizeist; they don’t even take sizes into account, almost like they’re wearing blinders to the number on the tag (fabric and fit take precedence).

I think the moment I realized that my affection for Stacy and Clinton wasn’t just about the dresses (but OH the dresses!) was during an old episode with a woman named Kandis, who was more than usually obsessed with her size. Within the first few hours of their tutorial, Stacy lost her patience with Kandis’s self-deprecation, and she said something that I thought was so interesting, I actually wrote it down verbatim (really, thank god for Tivo):

“You know what worries me? You are only talking about this clothing in terms of whether or not you are going to look thinner. Think about what you want your style to say about you, not whether or not your body is right, cause your body is perfect.”

Predictably, this was followed by an eye roll from Kandis, but I thought it was so genuine and lovely and on point. And since that episode, I’ve wished so badly that I could go on the show. But, unfortunately (?), I don’t think my sense of style is bad enough. Not that I’m as chic as Stacy, but I have a pretty good idea of what fits my body (wonky though it can be) and I don’t go overboard on the sluttery or the man-pants, so I fear I’m out of the running.

Anyway, the new season began tonight, and what’d ya know? Episode 1 focuses on Courtney, a 29 yr old who's lost 170 lbs through Gastric Bypass! She talks a lot about having 2 bodies (small top, big bottom-– where have I heard that before?) about how she still sees herself as fat most of the time, and then when she does see her small body she goes for clothes that are too skimpy.

Now, there are things I don’t relate to about Courtney. She views her weight loss as an accomplishment, while I constantly diminish mine as not really my doing. Also, she’s lost 70 pounds more than I have, and whenever I hear about a GB-er who’s lost more than I have (most of them) I feel shamed, like I only got a C when the rest of the class got B’s and above. BUT it was a fascinating episode nonetheless.

It was weird to see someone else who went through the surgery (and some subsequent cosmetic surgeries, although they didn’t go into detail) and came out confused about what she looks like and who she is. In the magazine spreads they seem to focus just on the positive aspects of weight loss (SO not what I do here, obviously), and this episode really highlighted the aftermath of feeling torn between two bodies, the old and the new. Courtney also talks about shopping, how frustrating it was when she was heavier and how extra-frustrating it is now to feel like all the work she did losing the weight was for nothing, because she still can't find clothes.

Again, Stacy tries to break through the psychosis of fat with words, constantly hammering in the point that clothes need to be tailored to fit perfectly, and that nobody fits into things right off the rack (besides my adorable friend Brittany). Towards the end of the episode, she turns to Courtney and says: “your body isn't the problem,” to which Courtney immediately responded: “my body IS the problem.”

Which is exactly what I would say, even now, even after watching all these shows and reading all those inspirational stories and crap. But if Courtney feels like one week with Stacy and Clinton helped her have a breakthrough in her relationship with her body (which, apparently, she does), then maybe a few more years of watching other people’s retail therapy will help me too. If only by proxy.

Let's talk about it.

2009-12-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

A couple of hours ago, I was lying in bed with my boyfriend, making out etc, and he whispered in my ear "your body drives me crazy."

Not only did I not respond by arching my back and grinning at him, the way I should have, but the way I did respond is just SO classic. I sort of faux-smiled (chagrinned, as I like to call it), and said "that makes two of us."

God, what a mood killer, eh?! If it weren't for my boyfriend's persistance I would have just given up. And to be honest, sometimes I do.

I don't write about sex much on this blog, I guess because it's one of very few subjects I'm not quite comfortable throwing out there into the internet, but I'm beginning to think I ought to change that. After all, the bedroom (or the living room, or the kitchen, or the airplane bathroom, etc) is the one place where (in most cases) we can't hide our bodies behind clothes or under water. It's also one of the few places where sarcasm really doesn't lighten the mood. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But it's still my first response when anybody compliments me on my body.

When I was about 15 (and fat), people always used to tell me I was beautiful or pretty. I assumed they were just looking for anything nice to say about my appearance, and I always brushed such compliments off with rolled eyes or a loud scoff. And then one day, my older cousin, Carolen, who's a bit of a hard-ass and straightforward to say the least, got kind of pissed off at my reaction to her compliment. She said something along the lines of "just shut up and say thank you," which, although contradictory, kind of struck a chord.

I realized then that constant protests and "pfffffttt"s are really annoying to the people who are just trying to say something nice. Why would they say it if it weren't true? Do we really think they're fucking with us, or are we just uncomfortable with compliments?

So I've tried my best, from that day, not to scoff when people tell me I look beautiful. But I simply can't get used to body compliments.

One of the first things I can remember my boyfriend saying to me, the night we met, is "you've got a great figure." Not only was this adorable in a British accent (fig-ah, tee hee), but it tapped right through my fake extrovert and struck me right at the fat-girl heart beating under my cleavage. Of course I disagreed, but when he kissed me I realized, even through my drunken haze, that he wasn't lying. Why would he kiss me if he thought I was disgusting/fat/wobbly etc?

Now obviously I didn't change completely in one long, drunken night of fun, but luckily for me he stuck around. 3 1/2 years later, I'm still making stupid comments (no, I haven't forgotten how I started this post), but there must have been some progress. Lord knows I own a lot of undies that I would never have bought before!

The truth is, I still don't really see myself as sexy most days. Of course there are slinky dresses and Manolo Blahniks (on sale, but still the most expensive shoes I've ever bought) that bring me moments of sexiness, however fleeting. But the big change has been accepting how my boyfriend sees me. It's taken years, but I think I finally believe him that he actually finds my body sexy.

I mean, as he always says, the proof is visible.

(tee hee)

The cure for self-obsession: Bronchitis!

2009-10-26T07:46:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning, nose running, lungs itchy and swollen, and generally just feeling like shit on a stick. I got out of bed, topless, and turned to put on my robe, and there was my boyfriend, staring at me appreciatively. I was not in the mood, but all he said was “you’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Of course, being the bitchy, complicated female that I am, I replied: “I don’t know how to take that,” and walked off to the bathroom, covering up on my way.

He meant it as a compliment to how I look now, rather than an insult to how I looked before, and in his defense he’s never once in 3 1/2 years said anything but kind words about my body. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hear the unkind ones he doesn’t say. Those are delightfully provided by my own fucked-up psyche.

But the point here isn’t that I’m screwed up, because everybody already knows that. The point is, when he said that about my weight, I realized with a jolt that these past few days I’ve been so focused on hacking up my alveoli that I haven’t really thought about my body or my weight.

When we were in Italy, I marveled at the girls walking around in their bikinis so un-self-consciously; I was convinced, despite my boyfriend's disbelief, that never in my life have I not even been aware of how my body looks, good or bad. And I still believe that, on the whole. But the past few days have proven to me that, while I am unable to be unaware of my body, I do have the ability to be unaware of my fat/weight/ass/hips/boobs. I just have to be focusing on a more pressing bodily matter, like pneumonia!

So that’s my good news report for the day. Oh, and in other good news, I have in fact lost weight since moving here; I’m about 20 pounds lighter than I was this time last year. But I’ve already gained a few of those lost pounds back in the past couple of weeks, and given my recent obsession with baking anything and everything to assuage my homesickness, I doubt the miracle weight loss will last much longer.

Either way, though, I do promise to try to update more frequently. I think I should have plenty to write about– well, I hope so, since the book I’m going to write for my MA program is going to be a memoir of this whole ridiculous in-body experience!

Sometimes boys have the right idea...

2009-09-23T07:46:00.000-07:00

I stopped using the calorie counter when we left for our vacation in Italy (Bologna, Umbria, Arezzo, and Cinque Terre), figuring I didn't want to ruin the delicious food I was planning on stuffing my face with, and relying on the fact that I always lose weight on vacation (my theory is that I'm too busy walking around to snack). And we were really active on vacay, especially when scrambling up and down mountains to nude beaches in Cinque Terre, so I really wasn't too worried about all the gelato and pasta I was consuming (YUM).

But I was planning on getting back into the counting when I came back to London... That was the plan, anyway. But then we only had 2 days before we moved into the new flat, after which life was (still is) a blur of unpacking, buying secondhand furniture, and entertaining the friends who so wonderfully came to visit me but whom I so unwittingly told the first week of September would be fine (gah). So long story short, I'm still not counting. And my eating habits have been super sporadic– one night we'll have a salad with grilled chicken for dinner, and the next we're having pasta, Coke, and cookies. And chocolate. Always chocolate.

But the weird thing is, I've lost weight. I know, I know, it doesn't make sense. I mean, I guess it does because I walk a lot here, but I haven't done any exercise since I left SF except in Cinque Terre, and I was definitely eating enough to make up for it. We even had McDonald's our first night in the flat! So I wasn't sure, even though the boyfriend told me I looked smaller (well, he said I looked great, and I had to weasel it out of him that he meant thinner, and then he spent 20 minutes telling me he thought I looked great before, etc).

But then one day, it was cold, and I was lazy, and my legs were unshaven. And for the first time in over 3 months, I grabbed my old jeans (not the new, larger-sized ones I finally bought 3 months ago), and I gave them a shot. My boyfriend watched, practically biting his nails with trepidation about the potential meltdown to come, as I pulled them on, held my breath, and buttoned. HOLY CRAP. Turns out he was right when he said I'd move back to London and get back into my jeans. Of course, that night I took them off and I haven't worn them since. I just like dresses!

But I still wasn't convinced I'd lost any weight, because he wouldn't help me fix the old bathroom scale that was left here by the previous tenants. However, when we went on a little window shop at our favorite home store, Heal's, there were scales on sale, just sitting there on the floor, their little footpads just begging for a test-drive. The bf sighed and rolled his eyes, but the success of the jeans had gotten to him too, because he bent down to 'examine' the price of one of the scales and 'accidentally' left it out from the wall a little, then he held my heavy leather bag as i slipped off my Birkenstocks and quickly jumped on (he didn't avert his eyes, though, which earned him a slap on the pec) and then off again.

A quick iPhone conversion later, I figured out that I'm 5 pounds lighter than I was when I left SF! And that was in my clothes, with a belly full of latte, mid-day (which you know adds like 7 pounds)! So, in the end, after all that stress and calorie counting and gym-going, it was just living on my own again, and maybe a bit of distance from family drama and delicious California cuisine, that made the pounds come off.

Or maybe my muscles have just atrophied from lack of use. Seriously, I carried groceries home yesterday and now my right bicep is sore. And my skin feels a lot saggier, which sucks, but I'm trying to focus on the positive. I'll just get back on the Fatgirl Slim bandwagon and keep avoiding the gym and diets, and hopefully come winter (really soon) I'll be back to wearing jeans every day and my legs can grow a pelt and finally be warm!

Oh, and I still miss my gym routine, but I'll sort that out when we have a sofa and a bed. Priorities, you know.

Even the Italians can't help me now!

2009-08-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

I'm in bologna right now, enjoying delicious food and gorgeous
scenery, but I can't stop hating on myself! What the fuck is wrong
with me?

Two weeks and counting...

2009-08-06T08:58:00.000-07:00

Well, I’m a Londoner now!

I moved two weeks ago, to make another go of it with the boyfriend and to study for my MA in Creative Nonfiction. And while I thought I would drop the calorie-counting act the minute I landed, I’ve actually kept it up pretty well. And given how much I walk here (let me just say, my poor feet have been BEGGING me to drop 25 quid on a pedicure, but I’m too cheap), I’ve actually ended up well below my allowance most days. But I don’t have a scale, and I refuse to pay for a new one, and my boyfriend refuses to help me procure one, so I have no idea whether I’ve continued to lose weight or not.

And I can’t decide whether that’s healthy or not. Because I feel like I would be so happy to see that I am losing weight, and it would make me feel more comfortable putting down the calorie counter, but I know that if it turned out I had stopped losing, or worse, I was gaining, I would feel miserable. So I guess for now it’s good to be without. But I do feel bereft.

But not nearly as bereft as I feel without my routine. I miss the gym, the good hurt after a hard workout, the calorie surplus at the end of the hour, even the people I used to see on the elliptical next to me every other day. Mostly I miss the feeling of pride in myself, for my muscular development but also just for my determination and sticktoitiveness. Oh, and I really really miss the Trader Joes salads I used to eat after every workout. They’ve been replaced with ham and bread. Sigh.

Once we’ve moved into our new flat (it’s in the works), I’ll sort out a gym membership for myself– I’ve long since decided it’s worth the money– and the plan was to do my dvd workouts until then. I dutifully brought Billy Blanks and Mari Winsor with me, but the first day I tried to do anything my boyfriend’s roommate came home in the middle of it and I shrank into self-consciousness at the thudding of the thin floor beneath me and above him. Have you ever tried to kickbox on tiptoe? It’s not easy, and even though it made me super sore the next day (and I only made it through 15 minutes), I just couldn’t bring myself to try again after that. As for the pilates, if you saw the floor of my boyfriend’s bedroom I think you’d understand why I balk.

I know, I know: “excuses, excuses.” And you’re right. But right now the workout situation is just so much less than ideal. The good news is, my boyfriend has agreed to walk through the park with me at a good clip this weekend, workout wear and everything, and maybe next week I’ll get up the courage to go power-walking on my own, too.

I’ll keep you posted, and if any of you readers hail from London, please leave a comment with a gym suggestion; I’ll probably be living near Angel and I’m a poor student.

Death of the diet?

2009-07-16T15:17:00.000-07:00

My friend Courtney sent me the link to this NY Times article this morning, and I found it really interesting and wanted to share.

I can't decide how I feel about it. There's always been a part of me that agrees with the idea that fat is ok, and all of me agrees that you can be fat and fit, but I think in a country like this (or in human society in general) people like to hear absolutes ("diet" or "don't diet"), so I fear the caveats and in-betweens and ifs/ands/buts will fall on deaf ears and we'll still be divided into anorexics/judgmental bitches and obese mcdonalds-eaters.

But maybe I'm being too cynical! Courtney seems optimistic. What about you guys? Any thoughts on the matter?

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels?

2009-07-13T18:50:00.000-07:00

That old Upper East Side adage has been running through my mind all week. Ever since I got my visa to go back to London and started counting down the days I had left of fresh, delicious California cuisine. I recently got to within a couple pounds of my goal (well, not my goal weight, but my goal of getting below a certain hated number), and now I’m struggling with a very difficult decision: to eat or not to eat?

I have an opportunity here. I could be below the dreaded number by the time I leave for London, if I’m willing to give up all badness and only eat healthy, low-calorie foods like vegetables sans olive oil and salads with no cheese or nuts. But then I would be sacrificing my last week of yumtastic treats like Trader Joes Mini Peanut Butter Cups and delicious grilled asparagus with olive oil and steak, glorious steak!

Maybe the choice would be easier if I had a point of reference, but I’ve never been thin, so I have no idea how it feels. What I do know is that a lot of things taste really really good!

So I’m calling out to you, thin people of the internet, to dig deep down into your protruding ribcages and tell me: how does it feel? Is it really better than buffalo mozzarella with heirloom tomatoes? Use your freshman year English class and describe, please! Enquiring, tubby minds need to know!

The good, the bad, and the fugly

2009-07-01T14:10:00.000-07:00

Happy July everybody!

I can’t believe the time has gone by so fast. I feel like I just got back from London, when in reality we’re coming up on a year since I left. Yeesh. And if all goes well I should be heading back that way in just under three weeks; fingers crossed that the British government gives me a visa…

But you don’t read this blog to learn about my personal and locational life! That’s what this blog is for. This blog is for all my many ugly and my few pleasant thoughts about my body, so here goes.

As you may know, July 1st marks the 12th week of my ‘new’ calorie-counting, gym-going regimen. As you also may know, this regimen, although it follows all logical and mathematical guidelines (I have a resting metabolic rate of around 2700 calories a day, so I eat about 1700 calories a day and work out at least 3 times a week), did me no good at first. In fact, I gained three pounds the first week and spent the next 6 trying desperately to get back to breaking even. And now, you ask? How’s the routine working for you after 3 months of hard work, Anne?

Well, dear readers, there’s good news and bad news. Since, despite my writing style, this is not actually a conversation (yet. Comments are welcome!), I’ll choose for you: bad news first, so we can try to end on a high note for once.

The bad news is I’m still too big for my jeans. After 3 months of regimented eating and exercise, some of my jeans won’t even pull up. I finally caved and ordered a size up, which means I have a great pair of nicely fitting jeans (the good news) but I’m on my way back up to a size 26 (the bad news). Or at least that’s how I see it. I’ve convinced myself that if I’m working this hard and only going higher, it’s only a matter of time before I’m on 1200 calories a day and I’m shopping at Lane Bryant again (not that I’m hating on Lane Bryant; they got me through high school with a lot of surprisingly fashionable choices). I also still hate my lower body excess. All this working out is making my butt all round and high, but I can’t see it through the excess. Ugh. It’s bad when you look in the mirror and the image haunts your dreams.

But I promised you the good news, and there is some. First, the calorie counting has gotten easier. Yes, I still have days (especially during certain times of the month) when I want to eat the world and the whole day is a struggle with myself not to scarf every piece of chocolate I can find. But overall I’m finding it a lot easier to stick to (and even come in under) my limit. I’m also controlling my intake of sodium better and trying to up my fiber levels, and I feel less bloated (although that may also be the exercise). Oh, and I have gone down to about 2.5-3 pounds below my starting weight. Not a huge success, but something is better than nothing (or a gain!).

The other good thing is the exercise. I’m probably in the best shape I’ve been in since senior year of college, when I used to go to the gym 4-5 times a week; I’m heavier than I was then and my ass is bigger, but it still feels good to be strong. Not only am I strong, but besides the ass thing I can really see my body changing. My stomach is a lot flatter and stronger, and jiggles less, and my hips have smoothed out a little, and even with the excess on my butt and legs I do think the overall shape I cut in the clothing I do fit in is more contoured. I’m also finally starting to get a little definition in my arms and shoulders and back again.

So there is good news, and maybe it even outweighs the bad news. It’s so much easier for me to focus on the bad, but I feel like you guys deserve to know the good too (after all, this blog is supposed to be all about frankness and openness).

My boyfriend is convinced that the excess weight and sizing issues will disappear the moment I get back to London, and there’s a part of me that believes him. I walk everywhere in London, and my life is significantly less stressful on a day-to-day basis, if only because the bf is there to coddle me when I need it. So a part of me is thinking “just hold out three more weeks, then you’ll be back in the UK and you can eat nothing but Cadbury and pasta and you’ll still slim down in no time!” But at the same time I don’t want to assume anything, and I also don’t want to lose the muscles I’ve worked so hard to develop.

With that in mind, the plan is to bring my Tae Bo DVD’s (seriously, I love how hard that man kicks my ass) and try to find a gym to join as soon as we have a flat. And who knows, maybe I’ll keep the muscle and lose the fat? But I still think the most important thing to try to lose is the attitude, because given how much I fluctuate I know I’ll be back at this weight sometime in the future. I can only hope it’ll be temporary, and that it won’t stress me out so much.

Why I love The Feeling

2009-06-22T12:30:00.001-07:00

Because their album, Twelve Stops and Home, got me through a really tough workout, finishing just as my iPod lost power on the way to the car. Serendipitous. Also, I just adore that album. It's great for driving and singing along to, especially 'Rosè,' an ode to the wine.

PS On another note, there were so many skinny girls in the gym today, and I felt irrationally offended. I feel like kicking them out. If you're naturally thin (which these firm-skinned, slender types clearly are), then why would you torture yourself at the gym? The only reason I can think of is that they want to be even thinner/hotter, and I guess that offends me. I know it's selfish but if this is the BEST I can do, and I'm still three times their size, why do they have to go and make me feel even worse by showing off how easy it is for them to go from svelte to svelter?

Serenity, my ass!

2009-06-16T12:59:00.000-07:00

I just finished a yoga/pilates/ballet workout, and I felt the need to vent.

I feel like yoga is supposed to make me more centered, more peaceful and one with my body, etc. And it does, when I can manage to not look at myself while I’m doing it. But when I do succumb to the temptation to look at my body in the poses, as I usually do, I feel the opposite of what I should. Instead of peace and harmony I feel rage and frustration.

This is especially true during downward dog, when I can’t help but look at my legs, the contracted thigh muscles lost under a rippling, hanging sea of excess flesh. I know, I know, I shouldn’t do yoga in shorts (or undies and a tee, which is usually my lazy at-home workout outfit). But it seems to me that covering up the problem is only a short-term solution.

Of course, staring furiously at the problem and fucking up my chakra (or whatever) doesn’t seem like any sort of solution at all. What I really want is a quick-fix (or a slow, guaranteed fix), but I don’t have the money or the down time required for surgery, and as my wise boyfriend put it, if I can just hold off for a couple of years, and make sure I really feel like I need it, there will probably be more, better, options. But eff that. I already had surgery on my thighs and I feel like it didn’t do a damn thing!

Basically I’m just cranky and frustrated, but I’m determined to keep it from ruining my already semi-crap day. Time to hit the showers and then go have some low-cal lunch (thank god pastrami and mustard are low calorie and tasty), and maybe I can drink away my anger tonight.

Wish me luck!

On a much more positive note...

2009-06-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

Check out this opinion piece by Nia Vardalos, the writer and star of one of my fave chick flicks, My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I love that she not only makes some really great points, but she also proves her mettle as a writer, beyond movie dialogue (which is tough enough!).

Explanation / disclaimer.

2009-06-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

So I feel like I should explain that last post. In fact, I thought about deleting it, because on reflection (after a night of sleep and weird non-bodily dreams) I can see how it would really disturb people, but the point of this blog isn't to show you guys what you already see when we're face to face or on the phone. It's to show people the straight, honest truth of how I feel in this mishmash of confidence and depression post-GB. And in the interest of a frank look at my body issues, I'm not holding back.

I know that can be scary, especially when I say things about cleavers and such, but the thing you have to try to remember is this: I don't make spontaneous decisions about my life. I don't even make spontaneous travel plans! So you can pretty much rest assured that I will never just hack off a hip, no matter how appealing that option may seem in the moment. I'll always sleep on it, and I think if it got really bad I'd probably call a hotline or something.

So try not to worry too much about me. Today is a new day, and I think the boyfriend and I are going to go see Up, which, from what I hear, will make me cry but will also leave me feeling uplifted by the end. Here's hoping!

Fuck this limbo game, I don't want to play anymore.

2009-06-09T18:22:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired of being trapped in this body. How many times in the last few months have I posted about my body making me miserable? Honestly I feel like it's just the story of my life.

I'm living out a life sentence in a horrible cell that I can't seem to change at all. And the worst part is that whoever is holding me here lets me out every now and then, liberates me from the prison of fat and self-loathing, and I get to smell the wildflowers and frolic in the meadows and all that great stuff, but then the alarm sounds and the dogs bark and before I know it I'm incarcerated again.

And the really fucked up thing is that I'm living two (or more) lives: one of me is constantly trapped in these body issues (and not just the image, but the reality of my weight and my size and all the exercise and dieting in the world not making a dent in the cellulite), and the other lives this great life, with fabulous friends and a hilarious family and a wonderful, supportive boyfriend. But I can't seem to kill off the prisoner side of myself, and the existence of the other life makes me reluctant to end them both. I'm starting to understand why crazy people hack off their own limbs (or ears); sometimes I wish I could pull a Fight Club and shoot myself in the face just to get rid of the more fucked-up side of myself, so the happier me could finally live in peace. Don't worry, or call the authorities, I know it's just a movie and face-shot treatment rarely works.

But I do feel like taking a cleaver to my hips sometimes. Or just throwing things. Anything to break out of this awful sticky jello-like sludge I'm suspended in. If this limbo continues I'm going to have to make a choice: either do something drastic to try to change my body, or give up on that and try to change the way my mind works. At this point I think I'd rather be a happy size 26 than a miserable size 16 who only fits into half her clothes.

Update on the media's portrayal of women.

2009-06-06T10:52:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of my friend Derek, here's a fairly hilarious bit from The Onion that's quasi-related to the last post (if mildly offensive to the point i was trying to make!).

Hooray for a more normal image in the general media!

2009-06-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching my trashy TV (VH1, 'nuff said), and unfortunately it isn't recorded so I can't fast-forward through the commercials. Or maybe that's fortunate, because if I could fast-forward I would have missed something that made me really happy: an advertisement for Nair Shower Power.

Why, you ask, would I want to see a Nair ad? I mean, I don't even use Nair, because my skin is super sensitive and breaks out (although, according to the ad, the new Nair is great for sensitive skin!). But I saw something that made me hit instant replay twice, and I was pleased to discover that my eyes had not been deceived.

The ad showed four women doing some kind of choreographed dance in the usual Nair style: short shorts, high heels, lots of leg. But this time something was different. One of the girls was normal, or, dare I say, a little thick!

Now, Nair ads have always featured borderline normal-looking women. Slender, but not stick-figures (which makes sense, because stick insects generally have stick legs, and I feel like Nair tends to emphasize curves). But this girl is probably a size 10 or so, which for TV is a big step in the right direction. I just wish I had a video to embed, but unfortunately you

It's one small dance step for woman, one giant pirouette for normal-sized womankind!

Great workout music, or what motivated me this morning.

2009-05-20T16:46:00.001-07:00

Top 5 (homage to High Fidelity) motivating songs:

5. Maroon 5, "Not Coming Home"

4. JoJo, "Leave (Get Out)"

3. Heart, "Barracuda"

2. Johnny Clegg and Juluka, "Work For All"

1. Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

Back to where I started, again.

2009-05-13T19:14:00.000-07:00

So it’s week 6 of the new calorie-counting lifestyle. I’ve finally lost that 3 pounds I gained the first week (gah), but I haven’t lost anything else yet. However, I have noticed some general changes, both good and bad. I figured it was about time to update.

Pros:
I feel better about my body, even though I haven’t really lost any weight– I feel less bloated, leaner, and stronger. Of course this could have to do with all the exercise I’ve been doing, and the type; my desire to eat more calories is a great motivator to work out harder and longer, and I’m learning what exercises (and just daily activities) are more calorie burning than others. I think I’m starting to see calories as something akin to money in my life: I have a finite amount, which I spend on some things over others, but I can earn more with a little hard work. So as a result I’ve been trying to do hard core exercise (like tae bo, which burns 595 calories in 40 minutes) 2-3 times a week, and throw in pilates (66 calories for 30 minutes) or walking (130 calories for 30 minutes) on my off days, if only to get that extra chocolate caramel in there somehow. It’s really making a difference in my arms, legs, and stomach. Under the excess skin and fat…

Cons:
I spent all day watching my intake and watching the clock, wishing the minutes would tick by just a little faster and get me through to the last two hours of the day, when I can eat without worrying. I usually eat about 600 calories by midday, and then I spend the loooong afternoon trying to conserve, so that when dinner costs me less than I expect (which it inevitably does), I can eat pretty much whatever I want (within reason) before bed. As much fun as this means for the late hours in the day, and as good as it is in that it generally has me ending under budget every day, I think it’s generally unhealthy. For one thing, time already goes by way too fast for me; I don’t need to spend the little time I do have wishing it would go faster for the sake of a few chocolate covered raisins. Secondly, I think it allows me to keep my pattern of self-denial and binging, albeit a much calmer version. I spend all my energy and time thinking about calories, and either patting myself on the back for denying myself so effectively or trying to contain myself and treat myself in a controlled fashion. I haven’t really spent much time berating myself for going overboard, mostly because I usually finish out the week under budget, but I worry that I’m becoming obsessed, in which case it’s only a matter of time before I’m getting myself down for every little slip-up.

Overall I think this is a good thing, as long as I’m careful. As my boyfriend pointed out today, I’m happier for having something in my life I can control, but I do think that’s dangerous and I need to keep a close eye on my behavior and how I relate to food. My goal is to keep up the calorie counting until I feel like I’m leveling out at a good size (not weight; although I would love to be down below the 200 mark again, the important thing is fitting back into my jeans), and then ease back and just try to keep certain lessons in mind. Those lessons are little snippets I’m learning every day, including what exercises to do when I want a high-intensity calorie burn, what foods are super satisfying for fewer calories (like sweet potatoes and pickles), and what foods to avoid at all costs, and only indulge in every once in a while (like bagels with cream cheese, which I adore).

So here’s hoping I can stick with the counting for a little longer, see some results, and then maintain those results without continuing to obsess. I’ll check back in soon and let you know how it’s going.

#SurgeryFAIL? (yes, that was a twitter reference, and yes I am ashamed)

2009-05-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

The recap: I had Gastric Bypass seven years ago. I started out at 290, never got down below 185 (size 16 jeans), and have fluctuated somewhere around 200 for the past couple years. I exercise regularly and eat well. I've also had a tummy tuck and arm/thigh lifts. I'm currently around 207, and eating 1770 calories a day in a drastic attempt to drop back below the 200 mark.

The current problem: Every now and then I watch a documentary or read an article about someone who has had weight loss surgery, and I feel like they're always so thin. I don't really understand why I never got all that thin in the first place, and why it's such a struggle just to maintain the loss, much less lose more.

The conclusion: I guess I'm disappointed. I don't regret the surgery, because it's had a huge impact on my life and my confidence, but I am frustrated that after three surgeries and seven years of struggle, I still feel fat. At what point is a weight-loss surgery considered a failure? I live in fear of gaining back all the weight and having to have another surgery, or just live with my body...

Can technology help me Lose It, or will I get lost in the numbers?

2009-04-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I downloaded a new app for my iPhone called Lose It. It’s a calorie counter, but it also incorporates exercise, and the best part is that it’s pretty non-judgmental, as these things go. It lets you choose your own goal, and how fast you want to lost the weight, and then it just calculates the numbers for you. For example, I told it my current weight (I don’t want to talk about it) and that I wanted to lose thirty pounds (yes, hopelessly idealistic) in six months (hey, you gotta have some realism). And it told me my calorie allowance was roughly 2,100 per day. Way higher than I expected!

Which is the other thing about this app: it makes me feel good about my eating habits! I have it tracking my nutrients as well, and besides the fact that I eat about twice as much sodium as I’m supposed to (yeah, yeah, whatever. Salt is gooooood), I’m pretty on-target with everything else. And I’ve been coming in under my calorie count pretty much every day. Even Easter! And I’m burning way more calories in the day than I realized (the app has about 17,000 different exercises listed, from walking while pushing a wheelchair to luge, and yes, they include sexual activity, although not super specific). So I started out on a high note, feeling pretty damn validated.

But two weeks in the validation was pretty useless in the face of the three extra pounds I’d gained. What?! I was furious. I’d been doing everything right, and I saw this (further) setback as yet another piece of evidence to prove my theory that my body will not listen to reason. But as I said, all the evidence in the world, and even the conviction that I’m surely moving toward, won’t fix the problem. Because my body can’t be my enemy; any punishment brought upon it is brought double upon me. Double incarceration!

So I changed the numbers. I brought it down to fifteen pounds lost, at a rate of two pounds a week. This brought my calorie ‘budget’ down to 1,770, and so far I’ve gone down by a pound, but I don’t really feel like anything has changed. It’s only been a week, though, so we’ll see if anything changes. And if it doesn’t, maybe I’ll just have to try to make peace with my body. If you can’t beat ‘em…

So my ending summary is this: the Lose It app and other technological aids won’t necessarily help me lose weight, but what this app does do is make me much more aware of my intake, and not just what but how much; I measure out portions now, and I decide what to eat based on what else I’ve eaten that day, instead of what sounds tastiest / is cheapest. Unless it sounds really extra tasty.

PS The only real drawback to the app, besides the frustration of controlling my diet and not my weight, is that I think I've become one of those girls who can't stop talking about calories...

The thing about these new blog ads...

2009-04-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

...is that they're related to the posted content, which is smart advertising and makes sense in terms of making money, for them and for me (well, to the extent that I'll make any), but given that the usual content of this blog is weight-related, I'm kind of squeamish about the type of ads that Adsense is attaching.

I don't want to encourage people to follow fad diets or take pills to lose weight, or even to lose weight at all in most cases! But this blog is the one that gets the most traffic...

Any thoughts? Do you guys hate the ads? Should I ax them or should I give them a try for a while?

It's all about perspective, or so they say.

2009-03-30T18:03:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been doing a little room improvement, which has led to a lot of re-arrangement of bookshelves, which has in turn led to a lot of rediscovery of old journals / favorite postcards / art supplies. And photos. Lots and lots of photos. More specifically, I was surprised to remember that I went through a phase where I actually bothered to create photo albums and scrapbooks for trips in my life.

I spent a good hour sitting on the floor, surrounded by bookshelf detritus, flipping through old albums, laughing and remembering the good times: the roadtrip my friends and I took in high school, the dress-up my friend Mark played freshman year of college, the trip my best friend and I took to Australia… but what struck me the most was the difference in how I looked then and now. And then, and then, and then…

One album was made up of photos from my dad’s 50th birthday celebration in Italy. We were both pre-GB, and boy did it show. I had completely forgotten how huge I was, and more importantly how shapeless. In all the photos I look so uncomfortable. And what’s really weird is that, while everyone else looks pretty much the same, only younger, my dad and I look nothing like our current selves.

And another album, which is a sort of photo scrapbook of my exchange trip to Spain, was an eye-opener in a different way. I went to Spain 2 weeks after the GB surgery; I’d lost 30 pounds and was wearing all new clothes, and I remember thinking I looked pretty good. in fact, I was stunned when a friend’s host mother made a comment about how ‘gorda’ I was. But looking back now, I see little difference between that me and the one from the Italy trip. And that in itself is a wake-up call about how much or how little a few (or 30) pounds can mean to someone, depending on where she is in her journey.

It’s weird and uncomfortable and sad to see how heavy I was, but it also puts things into perspective so much. I’ve been feeling so fat and unhappy lately, like I’ll never lose the weight I want to lose and I must be so much bigger than everyone else; to see these photos reminds me how far I’ve come, and how much more normal I look. No, I’m not slender, but I’m not that big either, and I forget that sometimes.

I put the albums on my new bookshelf, and I’ve resolved to look at them more often. Not just for a reality check on weight, but for nostalgia’s sake, for the memories of all the good times I had. My weight, although it has always been a big deal to me, hasn’t really stopped me from having a good time in life, and I want to remember that. If I could have fun with my friends in Spain at 300 pounds, then why shouldn’t I enjoy myself in Miami at 200?

All night on the beach til the break of dawn??

2009-03-11T12:24:00.001-07:00

In a little over a month I’ll be heading to Miami for a weekend reunion with my college girlies. Sun, drinks with umbrellas, lounging on the beach… sounds great, right? Well, yes. And also no.

While I’m psyched to be seeing my girls, I’m less than thrilled about the location. At first I thought this was due to my heart already having been set on meeting in saint louie, because who wouldn’t want to visit Miami? But recently I’ve realized that although I do want to visit Miami at some point, I’m worried about how it’ll affect me right now. Lemme ‘splain.

As you all know, I’ve been pretty rough on my body recently. Surprisingly, I’m not always so down on myself, but ever since I came back from London I’ve had a tough time liking myself. Anyway, I joined a gym in January and I’ve been pretty good about going three times a week, and I have started to see some tightening up and such (although I’ve actually gained a couple pounds), but I still feel really vulnerable to attacks of the body sads.

I don’t know about anybody else, but when I hear ‘Miami’ I think ‘thongs’ and ‘bodies’ and ‘sex.’ Not that I have anything against any of those words, per se, but the image I get is of bronzed women with tiny waists and high, round asses. Basically, perfection. Which I will probably never achieve, in the societal sense. Not only that, but I’m not even skinny with no ass, or curvy with a little extra meat but firm. I’m, as described in the last post, jiggly.

So of course I’m terrified of the beach, because the only thing to do there is lie around and let it all hang out. Even the pool is better, because it’s semi-private and I can always jump in the water and pretend it’s opaque. But the beach is all about lying around with your bits squishing out and trying to tan as much of your skin, excess or otherwise, while people stroll by and check you out (and either whistle or vomit internally).

I know we’re not going to spend all our time on the beach, and hopefully not everybody in Miami is hot anyway, but the fear is still keeping me from getting as excited as I should. I guess if worst comes to worst I’ll just pull a Miranda (from SATC), wear a bunch of cover-ups, and blame my pale skin. But I’d really like to get a tan…

The Ripple Effect

2009-02-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

I made a new friend the other weekend, and yesterday he made me a surprising offer. I was thanking him for introducing me to a couple of new writers and inspiring me to write more frequently, and he suggested that, as repayment, I could model for him sometime (he’s an amateur photographer). Nude.

Now, I don’t know what your reactions to this offer might be, but I almost stopped breathing. First of all, I haven’t known this man long, and he’s significantly older than I, and I’m not sure where our friendship stands on the gray line between ‘just friends’ and ‘awkward sexual attraction.’ But even disregarding my (and needless to say, my boyfriend’s) discomfort with the offer from a relationship standpoint, I was thrown by the revulsion I felt when I imagined standing naked in front of someone with a camera.

I’ve been working on the self-image / photos standoff for years. When I was fat, I almost never let anyone take photos of me, which actually cultivated an interest in photography on my end. Then when I lost the weight, I wanted to document my new size, but had difficulty asking people to take my picture after so many years of hiding behind the lens. When I did see pictures of myself, I was repulsed by the bingo wings and belly that were impossible to suck in or hide with a 3/4 turn to the camera. After those bits were nipped, I still refused to be shot from behind, because I couldn’t not see the thigh excess.

And now, I’ve finally had all the surgeries I promised myself, but I’ve still hit a wall on liking my body. There are a few photos of me in a bikini out there– I’ve even allowed the facebook tags to stand– but those have more to do with forcing myself to deal with the reality of documentation than they do with liking what I see.

Even though (or maybe because) I haven’t lost as much weight as I could have, as many people before and after me have, and even though I’ve had three surgeries to try to tuck it all back where it belongs, I still have a significant amount of excess skin hanging around. It’s not as obvious (which of course means it’s not as easy to surgically ‘fix’) as the belly, arms, and thighs were, but it’s certainly there. And it causes my lower body especially to look much less appealing than I’d like.

I don’t mean for people to think Shar Pei here, because it’s not an issue of rolls. Whereas rolls are at least smooth on their admittedly expansive surfaces, what I have going on is like cellulite on steroids. To the point of having what I not-so-affectionately call a ‘shelf’ over my butt. It’s like the skin wants to slide down to my ankles, but gets caught on the fat on my butt, hips, and outer thighs. This causes massive dimples, that are in fact more like craters, and a general lumpiness with which I’m increasingly unhappy.

So you can see why the thought of showing these waffle-batter haunches (not to mention push-up-less boobs!) to anybody would make me squirm. For some reason, maybe because of the way he reacts to said haunches, I don’t mind being naked in front of my boyfriend; in fact this whole nude photo thing has made me realize how amazing that fact is. But anybody else has to be either a total stranger in a land like brazil, or some other place where I can be guaranteed to never EVER see him again, or someone I trust as completely as I do my loving boyfriend (although I maintain that there’s something not quite right in his head, given how much he seems to actually like my naked body).

The long and short of it, then, is that I won’t be doing nude photos any time soon. I’d rather wait until I’ve at least finished my course of gym insanity and anti-cellulite creams (FatGirlSlim and Nivea Goodbye Cellulite work wonders if you’re not forgetful like me, and actually apply them twice a day), and maybe even tried this new VelaShape thing that’s getting so much buzz (but that’ll have to wait until I’ve made a little money). For now, I’ll stick to above-the-waist pics, with a few grudging full-bodies and even swimsuit shots allowed, as long as I have full deletion rights.

Thank God (or whomever) for the digital camera.

Memo to medical professionals: the 'weight' issue

2009-02-18T14:57:00.000-08:00

I have a bone to pick with the medical community, although it's probably well hidden beneath layers of fat. Yes, I'm talking about the way that doctors and medical professionals deal with weight.

A few months ago, I asked my friend if she liked her 'lady doctor,' because I needed to go in for my annual check-up and I don't have a doctor in SF. Her response was something along the lines of "yeah, I like her because she doesn't talk a lot. I mean, except to tell me to lose weight." At this point, she shrugged, as if this is par for the course. For the record, this friend, while not slender, weighs less than I do.

So I went online to Yelp (otherwise known as the bible), and I chose a doctor who gets rave reviews. He's a man, unfortunately, but I figured I should just suck it up and give him a try. And I liked him, mostly. The only thing he did that bothered me was that he talked a little too much. Oh yeah, and that he kept slipping in comments about my weight: "your blood pressure is a smidge high– it's probably nerves about a new doctor, but it could be your weight. When you move back to London, make sure you get birth control with a 30-35% [some hormone] because anything lower is too little for someone of your weight."

This was the first time since the surgery that a doctor has commented that I'm too heavy (and I use the term literally) and need to lose weight. I think once the medical history is out there, it's pretty clear that I'm doing what I can. I've already had major surgery, and now I eat small, healthy meals and work out for an hour and a half, three times a week. I'm so sorry that I still weigh too much; believe me, nobody is sorrier than I! I'm doing my best to lose more weight, but that's not even the issue. The issue is that weight, as in the number on the scale, has damn near nothing to do with health in any way. It doesn't take into account height, bone mass, muscle mass, water weight, or a million other tiny factors that can make that number five pounds bigger or smaller in the course of a day, in my case at least.

When are doctors going to stop using the term 'lose weight' as a substitute for 'get healthy?' I'm so sick of weight being an indicator of health. I'd bet dollars to donuts (and yes, that was intentional and not just a Fattian slip) that I'm significantly fitter, healthier, and generally more able than a girl my age who weighs 120 and never exercises. I'm as heavy as I am for multiple reasons, which include extra fat, of course, but also the fact that carrying around 300 pounds on my frame literally thickened my already-dense bones (I was told this by the surgeon who performed my GB), and that I have legs of steel (under the flub) from climbing Telegraph Hill every day.

I'm not suggesting that doctors need to be more sensitive, but that they need to be smarter. More specific. Target the problem, you lazy fuckers! Stop using 'weight' as a catch-all term for what ails the patient! If I need to be less fat, tell me I need to cut down on my body-fat percentage. If I need to eat more vegetables / fewer carbs / less red meat, or exercises more, or drink more water, or have a frickin' colonic once a month, then TELL ME THAT. I am over the scapegoating of pounds (or kilos, or stone, or whatever).

The bottom line is that naturally thin people, people who've never gained weight for any reason besides laziness or too much MacDonalds, don't have any fucking clue what makes a fat person fat. Every fat person is different; we all have different genetic factors and different environmental factors. I really like sweets, but that's not why I was obese. It was probably a contributing factor, but given that my mom is a health nut, there's no way my eating habits were solely to blame for my weight (by the time I was 10 I weighed 100 pounds, and the closest I got to chocolate was carob). No, I was obese, and I'm still 'heavy' today, because of the genes that my father gave me, direct from my grandmother, complete with slanted femurs, knock knees, wide hips, and small boobs. I'm a pear, and I always will be, but I am NOT unhealthy and I'm tired of one number convincing people that they know anything about me.

Pardon the swearing in this post, but this is something I feel really strongly about. Everybody (and every body) is different, and people in the medical profession should know this better than anyone. To fall back on numbers and surveys and journal articles about weight, instead of talking to your patient about her lifestyle, measuring her body-fat percentage, and testing her overall health, is lazy and borderline unethical, and I won't have it. Can anyone recommend a good 'lady doctor' who takes the time to do things right?

And the cookies are still in their Ziploc on the kitchen counter...

2008-12-23T18:21:00.001-08:00

Tonight, I lost it. I was supposed to go to a friend's house for dinner (and eat some very comforting Jewish food), and half an hour before I was due at the Caltrain station I made the mistake of getting dressed.
Now, it's really cold right now in SF, so I had to put on tights. This doesn't usually concern me too much, but when I put on my go-to pink dress (the one I'm wearing in that photo in the earlier post, about how confident I was), it was tight. And not good tight. I looked disgusting. All of a sudden, when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was fat, rolling and spilling like a lidless latte in an SUV. And so I lost it.
I went back to a mentality I do my best to avoid; I was furious, disgusted, and, worse, hopeless. I wanted to break the mirror. I actually wanted to scream, or throw things, or punch a wall. Another part of me just wanted to crawl into bed and give up. Mostly I just cried.
The worst part was that I had to cancel on my friends. This may not seem like a big deal to most people, but to me, flaking on plans is unacceptable. Especially twice in a row, and I backed out of plans with this friend last Saturday. So here I was, bawling and trying to hold myself back from physical action, and I just kept trying to wipe my face off and put on a different outfit and get out the door. After all, I was all ready and I'd even baked cookies.
But eventually my boyfriend, who luckily for me (if not for him) was with me, called my friend and told her what was going on, then sat me on the couch with a mug of tea and a blanket. As awful as I felt about flaking, it was the right call. Every time I thought about smiling and chatting with people I burst into tears again.
The really frustrating thing about meltdowns like this is that I can't just tell myself that it's all in my head, because the proof is in the pudding; my clothes don't fit. And I just can't figure out WHY. I've been busting my ass at the gym, and denying myself all kinds of goodies, and I've lost a couple of pounds but overall I'm feeling entirely unsuccessful. And I know it takes time, but the worst of it is that I don't see an end to either struggle– whether it's to lose weight or to feel okay about my body.
I feel like this will always be my life– feeling okay because I've distracted myself from how I really feel about my body, then periodically hitting rock bottom– and in all honesty it's in those moments where I see the future that I'm more afraid of life than death.

Earning my stripes

2008-11-14T12:56:00.000-08:00

Well, I promised you an update, but don’t come crying to me if it bores you.
I have this dress. It’s adorable. I love it to pieces, not least because it has huge pockets and cost 8 pounds (Primark). But there’s a problem with the dress. Well, not with the dress; it’s with me. This dress, like so many of my favorite/hated dresses, is strapless.
Now, putting aside for the moment the difficulty of finding a good, comfortable strapless bra, the issue is this: I have wings. Not just wings, but striped wings.
Did anybody watch The Real World, Hollywood? If so, did you notice Joey’s fatty stretch marks? That’s what happens when you work out too much or you allow a tiny parasite to invade your uterus: you get silvery lines of ‘oh god WHY’ messages from your skin. Incidentally, it’s also what happens when you gain a ton of weight. And when you lose it, you keep the lines, as a sort of ‘fuck you’ lack of forgiveness from the body’s largest organ.
Me, I have these things all over. Actually, they’re not bad on my stomach or hips, but for some reason they’re pretty bad on my chest/boob-sides (and the absolute WORST are the ones that show up, thankfully only in certain light, on the rounds of my shoulders). I know. Sexy. Anyway, most girls have them on their boobs, because they usually sprout pretty fast and take the skin by surprise. But mine are nearer to my armpits, I guess. Basically they’re RIGHT where strapless dresses like to sit. So not only do I get these little soft wing-y bits (which I try to resist poking), but they have stretch marks on them. I’m too young to have obvious stretch marks!
The really painful part is this: strapless dresses should look great on me. I have the perfect figure for them, and I have a lovely collarbone and pretty nice shoulders (in most light). The part of me from the boobs up is really what I like to highlight. But the striped wings ruin all that! It’s too, too depressing.
I’m wearing the dress anyway, partly because I love it and it’s super comfy, but mostly because my boyfriend and my best friend and anyone else I ask (including my harsh, honest mother) says the wings aren’t noticeable to anyone but me, but the experience is much dampened by my self-consciousness. I think I might start using cocoa butter or something; isn’t that supposed to work on stretch marks? Any advice??
It’s sad when a 23-year-old is cruising pregnancy websites for ideas about how to deal with her body issues. But then again, what the hell would I write about if I liked the way I look?

new post coming soon.

2008-11-07T18:30:00.000-08:00

watch this space! i promise, as soon as i send out the queries i need to send on monday, i'll update.

Back in the Bay

2008-09-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

To anybody who actually reads this blog (Derek), you have my apologies. I know I haven’t written in forever, because I was waiting to be inspired to humor and wit, but now instead I’ll just be updating the black hole of cyberspace on my life and my angstiness.
I left London in mid-August, which sucked because I had to leave my boyfriend behind, but I figured I’d be coming home to a land of a slightly more normal body scale. Women in London seem defined in class by their weight, much like Postal Packages. The thinner you are, the wealthier/better educated/generally classier you are. Or at least that’s how I felt there. The only women above a size 4 (US) were big, apple-shaped messes of fake blonde hair and loud offensive voices. Usually they didn’t live in London. (Of course I’m generalizing. Broadly. But I’m going to continue to do so, hiding behind my secure belief that hardly anyone reads this anyway, and Derek knows I’m not really an asshole!)
San Francisco, on the other hand, is diverse not only in race/gender/sexuality, but in body type as well. There are big people, small people, tall people, fat people, pear-shaped people (woo), apple-shaped people, and about a million other kinds of people here, and their shapes seem to have little or no bearing on class/attractiveness. I dig that. So I was excited to come home for that reason. I figured it might be good for my self-image to live in a diverse city again.
But oh boy did I repress a very important influence. When I lived in London I was living with my boyfriend, who is a med student and is ridiculously good to me. These two seemingly unrelated facts are actually inextricably linked: he’s constantly telling me I’m not fat, and that I eat well and am healthy so I should stop hating on myself, and because he’s studying medicine, I sort of almost believe him sometimes. So even though the world outside our apartment made me feel like shit, at least I had a little haven of potential sanity to come home to.
Here in SF, on the other hand, it’s a bit of a flip. The city makes me feel normal (most of the time), and sometimes I even feel sexy (apparently the cheap polyester dress I almost never wear is a man magnet. Noted). But my home is deceptive. It seems cozy, and there’s a lot of love here-– my parents are the silently, invisibly loving types-– but in fact it’s a cesspool of bad body vibes. My mother has been on diets and generally unhappy with her body as long as I can remember (and she’s a size 10 in pants and looks ridiculously slender and hot), except for the short periods of diet success, which are always tainted by the fear that she’ll re-gain. My sister has been unhappy with her body for years as well, and she and my mom discuss little else. And my dad, while he’s not really introspective enough to feel much unhappiness, is brusquely dismissive of my attempts to be happy with my own body/lifestyle, and every now and again slips back into envious watchdog mode: ‘you don’t want to eat those red vines! Here, I’ll save you from yourself.’
So anyway (and may I say how relieved I am that my family takes no interest in my writing and will never see this), it’s not the best environment for someone who tends towards body self-loathing. All I’ve thought about in my spare time since I’ve been back has been diets and gym memberships (which I can’t afford) and Bliss FatGirlSlim (which is actually AWESOME, even on my flabby post-GB ass). But I can’t move out because I’m poor and trying to be a writer, and anyway I love living with my parents (I know, I’m a nerd). I just wish my family could love themselves more, because all their self-hatred rubs off on me in a really bad way, and I’m pretty sure they have no idea. Although, being WASPs, I’m sure if they were made aware they’d immediately repress. Which is my plan for today.
To Do: 1. post blog entry, 2. repress blog entry, 3. rub FatGirlSlim all over body while eating chocolate and watching Extreme Makeover.

A thong of dispair.

2008-07-24T12:52:00.000-07:00

So I went to the gym today, like a good little chubster, and while I was sweating it out on the bike I tried not to stare at the perky, everslender asses bouncing up and down in front of me on the elliptical. But I couldn’t help it, and here’s why: I have a problem with staring at other people’s bodies, especially tits and ass. I think maybe I’m part frat boy. Or I grew up with a bisexual older sister and a vocal older brother, and was trained from an early age to check out other women (although sadly I get no tingles down below from kissing them or touching their boobs, which is as far as I went with my only girl-fling).
But this is not a post about my inappropriate staring. This is a post about thongs. Ok, ok. I get it. I no longer rail for hours against the thong; I no longer state outright that I’ll never wear one, or that it’s better to just go without. Windy days in SF have taught me that they are better than nothing, and I even own about ten, a few of which are favorites (love you, Gap Body!). BUT(T) I draw the line at thongs at the GYM! WHAT??
I know I’ve admitted I own some, and even that I like wearing them sometimes, but I never said they were comfortable. Come on, girls. They are not comfortable. They’re not as terrible as I once assumed them to be, but they are not, by any stretch of the imagination or lycra, comfortable.
So why, I ask again, would you wear one to the gym? Skipping over the obvious gynecological problems that sweating in tight pants and a thong probably cause, that leaves us with the question of why, socially/fashion-wise.
All right, I understand that tight pants such as those favored by most of us when working out, lead to VPL unless you wear a thong. But– and here’s the really important question– who gives a flying fuck? Seriously, it’s the thong-wearing types who ruin the gym for those of us who just want to get sweaty so we can have a smoothie without feeling guilty. Because you know they’re not wearing those thongs for comfort, no matter what they might say. I don’t care how wedgie-licious your usual workout panties are, there is no way that having a chunk of cloth permanently wedged in your ass crack is more comfortable.
So of course they haven’t thrown on the thongs for comfort’s sake, which means they're doing it out of self-consciousness. Fair enough. We all feel self-conscious at the gym. But the point of the gym is to be able to at least pretend to say ‘fuck it.’ And we can’t do that if some of the herd are striding in looking perfect!
Basically, I feel it is an inalienable right of gym-goers to be comfortable and feel moderately cute while they self-flagellate with exercise. Therefore I don’t judge (in fact I often ask about store locations) those who wear cute tops or sporty little capris or pink sneakers. Whatever makes you less miserable. I myself wear cute capris and orange and pink sports bras under tight men’s undershirts, and I put my short hair in pigtails, and I look pretty cute at the gym. But I draw the line at makeup and thongs. These women need their own gym, where they can be pretty and VPL-free with each other, because I don’t want to see it. I joined the Y so I can see old barrel-chested guys and saggy-assed, proud VPL-bearers sweat like animals, not to watch perfect twenty-somethings parade around with a healthy glow and asses unmarred by elastic bands.
It ruins my fucking chi. Or whatever it is that chi translates to in the realm of physical fitness.

Chick-lit Review

2008-07-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

Since I started writing my own novel, I think I’ve read at least ten chick-lit books in the name of 'research,' and what I’ve discovered is that there is no rubrick for character development, plot, or even number of protagonists. It seems that chick-lit, for all the pigeon-holing it falls victim to, is as wide and varied a genre as literary fiction. Well, maybe not literary fiction. But any other genre besides that.
Anyway, in the past week I’ve read three very different novels, and had very different reactions to them. So I’ve sort of been walking around (well, loafing around) with book reviews in my head and no-one to share them with, save my poor boyfriend, who’s beginning to roll his eyes a bit too much for my taste. But then I thought about you all, and how long I’ve left you pining for another installment of My Oh-so-fascinating Life, and I figured I could subject you to a bit of book review!

The three novels I’ve read most recently have been, in chronological order:

1. Bad Behaviour, by Sheila O’Flanagan (Irish, duh):
Darcey and Nieve were best friends for years, inseparable until a man came between them. Now Nieve is coming back to Ireland to marry the man she stole from Darcey, and both the wedding and outside circumstances are forcing both women to examine their past relationships and their present desires, and reconsider their futures.
That was a shite summary, but really plot is unimportant in these novels (as will be proven by comparison of this book with the following). What was important in Bad Behaviour was the character development (I found myself incredibly involved in their fictitious little lives) and the flow of the writing. The book was constructed almost entirely of scenes, with flashbacks deftly woven into present-day conversations. I found myself devouring this book, much to my boyfriend's chagrin at being ignored. Even during scenes of plot points of which I had been warned earlier in the novel, such as the moment when Nieve steals Aidan from Darcey, I found myself completely engrossed, emotionally involved, and even shocked, as if I’d thought this time Nieve would do the right thing. I don’t know if that made any sense, but the important thing to note is that I become invested in the characters, and that’s something most writers can only hope to achieve.
In all, this book was well-written, engrossing, and easily digested, as all good chick-lit should be.

2. Thanks For The Memories, by Cecelia Ahern (Irish, and daughter of former Irish Taoiseach (PM) Bertie Ahern):
It should be noted that I’ve avoided Cecilia Ahern’s books ever since I picked up PS I Love You, read the back, and nearly vomited in Waterstone’s. However, the girl is 26 and has written six best-selling novels, one of which has become a blockbuster movie, so when I read that back of this most recent work and didn’t spew, I thought maybe I could learn something.
Thanks For The Memories is about an Irish woman and an American man, linked in some kind of other-worldly way through blood the man donated, which ended up in the woman’s body. Joyce, the woman, suddenly finds herself an expert on Architecture, speaking Latin and Italian, and having choking fits when Justin eats his steak a bit too quickly. The basic premise interested me at first, but, as I’ve shown, was so overdone and literal that I found myself scoffing aloud and saying ‘oh please!’ far too often.
So the plot was disappointing, but more disappointing was the writing. It wasn’t entirely hopeless, but the grammar left much to be desired and Ms Ahern was obviously lacking a good editor. There were countless paragraphs in which the verb tense switched willy-nilly from past to plu-perfect to past with no logical reason for the shift. I found myself constantly reading aloud to my boyfriend: “Listen to this, no really… does that make ANY sense to you??” He didn’t really care, but he did agree that the writing was bad, and the plot wasn't that interesting, and I should stop reading the book. But I don’t stop once I’ve started, and I managed to finish in two days.
The thing that bugs me most is that Cecelia Ahern is so successful! It fills me with a most unbecoming bitter envy when I look at her young face in her author photo and then read her confusing sentences and mis-conjugation of ‘to lie.’ Gah! And that is all I’ll say about that. But it wasn’t the worst book I’ve ever read.

31 Dream Street, by Lisa Jewell (English):
Now this book I’m not yet finished with. I should finish by the end of today. Unlike the first novel I reviewed, Dream Street isn’t engrossing. That’s not to say it isn’t interesting, only that I don’t have to tear my eyes from the page to greet my boyfriend when he comes home in the evening. But I really like it. The best word I have to describe the way I feel about the novel, characters, and author is ‘affectionate.’ The writing is sufficiently skillful, the characters likable and well-developed, and the plot interesting and varied. But mostly I just feel warm towards the book. I just like it. Not because it’s overly sweet (in fact the observations are sufficiently wry at times), but because…well I don’t know why. But I would recommend it to anyone looking for a light, warmth-inducing read. I’m sorry this review isn’t more articulate, but somehow I find myself unable to think analytically about this book. I just like it!

So there you have it, a brief review of three chick-lit books. I know this has very little to do with body image, but it seems to me that chick-lit is almost as important to women as their bodies... Ok that's a stretch. But anyway I felt the need to get my opinions out there, and now I have! Hope you've enjoyed this installation of the Chick-Lit review.

"Turn off your mind you're using up your brain"

2008-06-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

Today I set foot in a plus-size store for the first time since losing the weight seven years ago. As I've previously mentioned, sizing is a bitch over here in the UK, and despite my determination to avoid buying pants (in order to avoid facing the realization that no store here carries pants big enough for my hips), I've recently been on the hunt for a cute pair of shorts for my trip to Rome this week.
I first tried the good old department store, M&S. Like Old Navy (my favorite store when I was heavy), they carry a wide range of sizes, and are popular with all ranges of body type, so if someone recognizes the dress you're wearing, you're spared the embarrassment of saying it's from Lane Bryant (although I kind of miss Lane Bryant, bc they have adorable clothes). In fact, a stick-insect might even smile at you and say "I have that!" This is a wondrous feeling.
Anyway, sadly, the only shorts I liked at M&S were sold out in my size. So, after cruising online and bravely trying on a pair of shorts at H&M (so cute, and made my butt look great, actually, but wouldn't even come close to zipping up), I decided to suck it up and try Evans, a plus size store (however, here that means size 14 (US 10) and up, which is infuriating) lauded for their curve-enhancing styles.
It took a lot of psyching myself up to walk through those doors in front of everyone and her mom on Oxford Street. If it hadn't been for my boyfriend holding my hand and practically dragging me in, I'm not sure I would have made it. And I was only there for 20 minutes at most. I grabbed the only pair of shorts I really liked, tried them on, was relieved that they were too big (and generally they just weren't my style), and happily resigned myself to dresses and skirts and leggings as my vacation wear.
So the trip itself was uneventful, except that it got me thinking about how lucky women are to have stores that carry cute, fashionable clothes in bigger sizes. I worked really hard when I was heavy to have a wardrobe that made me feel feminine and cute instead of like an elephant hiding in a mumu. The experience at Evans also made me mentally slap myself a little. When I was heavy, all I wanted was to be able to wear the labels my friends wore, like American Eagle or Anthropology or Gap. And now I can, and I find myself terrified that if I get comfortable with bigger stores I'll let my body ease back into a size 26 again. But I won't. I like those Anthropology dresses too much!
Anyway, I'm sorry if this post is a little weird and not very well written; I didn't really have a cohesive essay planned out (and I'm listening to Madonna, the immaculate album, so I'm a little distracted by singing). I just wanted to share that I broke my no-plus-size-stores streak today and it wasn't so bad.

Blog article in NY Times Magazine

2008-05-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

This article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/magazine/25internet-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hp
is really interesting, but I can't decide if it's a description of everything that's tempting about blogging or everything that's wrong with it. I mean, after all, the experience got the writer a piece in the NY Times magazine!
By the way, can I just mention that this girl was 24 when Gawker offered her the position she's writing about, and at that point she was an associate editor at a publishing house and was antsy to be promoted faster. I'm 23 and living in London on a tourist visa, nannying. Kill me now.

For the love of Gok.

2008-05-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

I saw Gok Wan on the street today having lunch and I almost fell all over myself. But I decided to let him eat his lunch in peace. So I'll do it here instead: "Gok!! I LOVE you! I love your show and I just think you're so wonderful."
Oh, and here's a great interview:
part 1: http://youtube.com/watch?v=Fq__xI5fe2U&feature=related
part 2: http://youtube.com/watch?v=JGKpSTFqLPU&feature=related

love love love love love him.

It really is about confidence!

2008-05-03T13:01:00.000-07:00

This is how I look today:

No makeup, moderate VPL, okay hair, sunburned nose. But every time I looked in the mirror this morning I felt pretty good. I’m not saying I saw no flaws; I saw a few, and I even identified them aloud to myself. But then I immediately identified the good stuff, and I made sure I ended on that positive note. And, lo and behold, at least half of the men I passed on the way to the park this afternoon took a second look. A few even smiled at me!
So maybe I look better than I give myself credit for, but I have a feeling it has more to do with that little extra swing in my hips, and that easy smile on my lips.
Maybe confidence really is key. Or maybe it’s just that Frowny McWorryalot is kind of unattractive. Noted, men of London. Thanks for the smiles today.

PS For anyone who actually reads these things, let it be known that I have integrated pilates into my workout routine and decided not to be so hard on myself. Fuck sticktoitiveness, I'd rather just be happy.

Tired of fighting...

2008-04-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had a total meltdown. Deep into week three of my workout program, I was starting the third and most difficult video after two days of extreme-cramp-related slacking. I got through five minutes before I wanted to throw the television across the room. I made it another twenty-five before I gave up and went to take an incredibly frustrated bath. Once clean, and somewhat calmed (repressed), I did the what-to-wear dance, battle number two. After my boyfriend chose an outfit and convinced me to leave the bedroom battlefield, strewn with the casualties of my fray with myself, I went to deal with my hair.

A bit of battle history now: my hair was my best feature when I was fat. It was thick and lush and curly/wavy/versatile, and it was generally easy to deal with. When I lost a hundred pounds I also lost half my hair. It became wispy and difficult and generally looks best short. In the past seven years I’ve spent way too much time and money trying to make it do what I want it to do, and the result was usually straightening. As a result of all this stress, I seem to have lost my curl. Not entirely, though, which is almost more frustrating because it means I still hold out hope. For example, during my senior year of college, for one glorious night, my hair curled perfectly for the Chancellor’s Ball. I’m including a picture for reference:

Since then, I’ve had sporadic moments of curly lusciousness, due mostly to hundreds of dollars worth of products, but the battle rages on. It is, in a word, exhausting. And any of you who know me well know that exhaustion is the one physical state that really acts as a catalyst for my ever-growing insanity. Whether it’s lack of sleep or recovery from surgery, physical exhaustion loves to bring me to the edge of the cliff and poke me with increasing force until I finally teeter over.

But what got me last night wasn’t just the hair. Because I did end up just surrendering and putting it up. However, after the hair came the meltdown itself, including wall-hitting and terrifying of my own ally (the boyfriend, who thinks I’m certifiable and on the verge of becoming a cutter). And after the meltdown came multiple battles to keep from crying on the street, and then another clothing battle when I made us go home so I could change.
The good news is that the trip out to the gay boyfriends’ house was far enough to give me time to recover. Or at least re-cover. The bad news is that I didn’t resolve anything.
I’m so so tired of fighting with myself. The battles never end. It’s a war of attrition!

Since I became aware of being fat I’ve been fighting with my body.
Since the Gastric Bypass in 2001 I’ve been fighting with my mind, trying to be happy with my body. This battle has carried on through three more (cosmetic) surgeries and is still being waged every day.
Since the GB I’ve been fighting with my hair. And my body, still. Neither seems willing to submit to my desperate and often persistent attempts to change them.

The worst thing is that now I don’t know what to do about my workouts. Because it’s a 6-week program, and I’m not even halfway through. The awful truth is I can feel it working, firming up my body and making me feel better about my body (when my team is winning, that is), but I’m not sure I can stand the workout itself anymore. It just frustrates me, and not because it’s difficult, although it is. I’m just so FUCKING BORED with it. And how can anybody be peppy and bouncy when bored? If you know, please help. Because I don’t know how to get through an hour with Debbie Siebers and not hurl myself at a wall just to change things up a bit.

For today I’m just going to try to push myself through it and risk another meltdown. Is it worth having firm ab muscles if your mind is reduced to mush by multiple mental breakdowns?

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

2008-04-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

I hate London right now. As if I didn’t feel shitty enough about my body most days in the states, London is interminable.
UK sizing is about 2 sizes above US. So if, like me, you usually wear a size 12 dress and size 16 jeans (yes, I am pear-shaped), then here you’d wear a size 16 dress (plus-size in the US) and size 20 (!!!) jeans.
And if, like me, you had multiple surgeries and angsted for years in order to leave the twenties of sizing behind, you probably wouldn’t appreciate this. In fact, you might find yourself standing in the workout gear section of Marks and Spencer, crying as you tried to make yourself pick up said size 20 so you can do your workouts and try to feel better about yourself without having to always hitch up your old ragged Target pants.
I scared my boyfriend, who keeps thinking his words will help and telling me how much he loves my body (as if it were his opinion that mattered), and I depressed myself, and am now hovering in limbo between two desires: starve myself or eat the world. Neither, I think, would be particularly effective.
Anyway, I have little to say beyond this: London is too fashion-y and too full of skinny women for me. Most days I manage to avoid looking directly at the problem, but today it ran straight into me like a rude man with a large duffel bag.

36-24-36? Haha, maybe if I were 5'3"

2008-04-09T09:06:00.000-07:00

Oh my god I am SO pathetic. I think I might be in worse shape than I was when I was heavy. Four minutes into my first attempt at what is admittedly a tough workout video (but not this tough) my arms felt like they were going to fall off. Another ten minutes and we were into squats. Well, they were. I was “marching it out” because my thighs were having seizures as a result of the few squats I managed. Luckily they recovered for plie time, but still! I have no idea how this happened. Probably the car my parents gave me for my 22nd bday, mixed with moving to the flat land of London. Yeah, I’m thinking that’s the combo. When I’m here I walk all the time, but it’s flat. When I’m home in SF it’s hilly and I try to walk a good bit but it’s nothing compared to when I used to have to take the bus/ walk everywhere. Gah! Anyway, day one is over, and although I dread the pain of tomorrow I’m also looking forward to feeling buff again. Stupid maintenance-requiring muscles.
In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m back in London. And flabby. My time at home was wonderful, filled with friends and family and sunshine. And cookies. And Easter candy. And oh so good and buttery foodstuffs. Not that I gained any weight (because my body doesn’t work in such normal ways), but I did get, shall we say, softer. Only I don’t mean my wit or my sense of humor or human decency. I mean the paunch.
Oh, and of course, last night I got home from two wonderful nights in Paris. The boyfriend took me to celebrate our 2 year anniversary (gah!), and the trip was filled with joy and cuddles and walking and coffee and people-watching goodness. And bread. And 85% fat butter (oh god orgasmic). And chocolat chaud. And froid. Oh, and did I mention all the skinny women? Do I even need to mention them? Stupid skinny women. Like I didn’t feel fat enough.
So there you have it. My first entry into the hell-log. I'll try to only keep you posted when I have something remotely interesting to say.
Right now my head is swimming from 30 minutes of cardio. Seriously. Pathetic.
PS I noted three things while doing the lying-down portion of my workout:
1. we might need a legit vacuum to supplement our less than perfectly effective swivel sweeper. I’ll be looking into dustbusters as soon as I’ve regained lung function.
2. hardwood sticks to imperfectly (read: not) toned backs. I need a mat.
3. my arm muscles seem to have atrophied. It seems having a boyfriend to carry things for you has a downside…
PPS could I BE more pear-shaped? I am so NOT going to post my measurements here but let it be known that my hips are almost 10 inches bigger than my chest! Oh, the agony.

Debbie Seibers is the devil.

2008-04-09T03:57:00.000-07:00

Today I start my 6-month intensive workout regimen. It's called Slim in Six, and it worked for me a few summers ago, in that I lost like 10 pounds and 13% of my body fat. Although, I was still the same pants/dress size I am today, and have been since about a year after the GB, cosmetic procedures notwithstanding.
Anyway I'll be working out every day except Sundays (or, in this case, Tuesdays, because I'm supposed to start on a Monday but I figured procrastination=bad), without fail. Seriously. I'll be enlisting my boyfriend to put himself in the direct line of fire by reminding me every day, and kicking me in the butt if necessary. It will be necessary.
So next time I write I should at least be smug, if not slender. I've decided that smugness and general strength (and flexibility; since I stopped working out I can't even reach my ankles!!!) will just have to suffice for the time being. If nothing else, working out regularly has always made me feel better about my will power, and has often helped me feel less shitty about my body.
Plus, my arms tone up real nice.
However, for the record: I am NOT looking forward to being unable to sit on the toilet without falling. This woman hates quads and does everything she can to destroy them.

I think my next surgery should be a lobotomy.

2008-03-13T14:16:00.000-07:00

My dad’s cousin is in town, and she hasn’t really seen me since the gastric bypass and the other surgeries. I mean, she saw me once, but it was pre-plastic and only for a second. So I’m suddenly acutely aware of how much I’ve changed again. And also of how I’m supposed to be, in others’ eyes.
For example, I know that gastric bypass means I should never eat sweets and I should only eat half-sized portions of everything. But it’s been like 7 years. I’ve learned how to eat sweets (unfortunately) without getting sick, and my stomach has stretched a little. I still don’t eat that much, but some days I can even eat a whole sandwich and chips.
But when I tell people about the surgery, or when people have heard about it and then meet me for the first time, I feel like I need to be extra careful to conform to their idea of how I should be. I also feel like they might be confused as to why I’m a) not that skinny and b) not happy with my body. Sometimes people look at me quizzically, as if they can’t believe that after all I’ve gone through I’m still unhappy with myself, probably the majority of the times I check the mirror.
I’m confused about it too. It pisses me off and generally discourages me to no end that I still feel like I need to lose 20 pounds, or, worse, that I find myself cruising my cosmetic surgeon’s website when my boyfriend isn’t around. I tell myself I’m just looking, that I definitely don’t want any more surgery. The truth is, I don’t want to recover from any more surgery. And I don’t want to feel like other people think I’ve had too much surgery.
Like my mom. I had what amounts to a heart to heart (for us) with her the other night, and she told me she hopes I can someday be happy with my body, without more surgery. Which is sweet, and I know that she means it, at least in part, but I also know that she’s uncomfortable with the plastic surgeries. And I think part of her is embarrassed of me, or thinks I’m being too vain, or thinks I’m taking the easy way out. Which is painful to see, but she’s never been good at hiding her distaste, so I can’t pretend to be all that surprised.
Anyway, for now I guess I’ll just keep at the working out, try to firm my skin that way, and try to stay positive. Which is tough, because I’m pretty sure no amount of exercise will firm my hips or lower back. But here’s my resolution: that’s the last time I’ll say that (or at least put it in writing) until I’ve really tried. If, after six solid months of serious workouts, my hips are still just as jiggly, then I give myself license to look into spending (hopefully not wasting) a small piece of my inheritance on non-invasive cosmetic procedures. (Anyone know anything about thermage?)

P.S. On a completely different note: I’m now Mac number 5 in this coffee house. There are 2 PC’s. And like 4 other people, laptop-free. It’s kind of sick. And Mac number 4 is playing his music way too loudly.

Purging

2008-02-18T10:04:00.000-08:00

I’ve been so unhappy with my body recently. I can’t really figure it out. I’m eating fairly well, I haven’t gained any weight, my clothes still fit me…but for some reason every time I look in the mirror I look thick. And I don’t mean sexy black girl thick. I mean linebacker thick. Or just fat girl thick.
And it’s not even just that I feel fat. Today I forwent my usual padded push-up bra for my favorite lace underwire, which, although it doesn’t make my breasts look particularly large, makes them feel huge and fantastic. But today they just looked tiny, and flat, and then the rest of my torso as a result looked flabby and large. I’m still wearing the bra, but I feel awful.
And it’s not just my upper body. I mean, my hips and thighs have always been the biggest part of me, but usually I think they’re curvaceous and lately I think they’re just gargantuan. Somehow the subtle flow of their form, which used to be feminine and sexy, is now just heavy and cumbersome.
There's really no point to this post other than venting the icky feelings I've been experiencing lately. Rather than make myself vomit or take a razorblade to my thighs, I choose words as my release. Not that those other things don't appeal in the really bad times. Anyway, thanks for helping me purge the badness in a healthier way.

P.S. I feel obliged to mention that I’m never more inspired than when I feel shitty about myself, so I must apologize now for the fact that most of these posts are likely to err on the side of depressing/self-deprecating. You just have to trust me that I’m not always like this. In fact, I go through plenty of periods where I think I’m almost foxy. Well, almost.

Fashion allergies

2008-02-16T11:14:00.000-08:00

I spent all morning cruising the internet for publishing jobs, newspaper opportunities, and magazine internships. I was so excited to really sink my teeth into writing, and specifically I decided I was going to apply (when I’m back in the US) for any and all openings at Cosmo, Marie Claire, Glamour, what have you.
But just now I was reading Marie Claire, and all I could think was how I couldn’t afford the beautiful clothes in the pages, and how sickening it is that one article of clothing can even cost that much in the first place. And of course, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about how I’d never fit into them anyway. Worse, when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it, when I thought I was opening up about how sick my mind is, how I used to (and sometimes still do) wish I could be anorexic instead of fat, I realized he wasn’t listening. And he doesn’t see how it’s hurtful, because he doesn’t understand that I was talking about something so important. Because he wasn’t listening.
I guess that’s a different topic though. The real point is, now I’m wondering if I really want to work for these people. Not necessarily because the message they send is toxic (although I’m pretty sure it is, not that I don’t waste all my money devouring these magazines anyway), but more because I’m concerned that the environment would be particularly toxic to me. I have a feeling I might hate myself even more if I were surrounded by this stuff in the flesh.
I think I’m going to try to stop buying fashion magazines. Which is sad, because I love them. But I also love kiwis, and I don’t eat them because they make my lips swell up in a very un-sexy way. So I’ll go about my life with fashion mags the way I do with kiwis: I’ll avoid them on the whole, and when I just have to have one I’ll buy it and consume it, knowing full well that I will pay the horrible, painful price.
I just have to hope it’s worth it.

Freak Hairs

2008-02-11T05:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this blog is supposed to be about fat and such, but since I'm covered under the term "Body Issues," I want to talk about freak hairs.
Now, my hair (from my head), is always falling out and tickling the bare skin on my chest/shoulders. I don't mean this in a stress-clump way, but rather a single straggler way. I'm fairly certain that I am not alone here. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only girl who's ever found a longer-than-it-should-be hair growing from somewhere other than her head, which is what just happened to me. I felt what I thought was a straggler on my collarbone, but when I picked it off I found it was attached. I was horrified. Of course, when I pulled it, I found out it was so blond it was almost white, and I'm sure nobody else could have noticed it. But still. Ew.
So what's the deal with the freak hairs? Other girls in my life have found them too, some of them on their faces, and my lovely brother was kind enough to point one out to me that had appeared on my neck! They seriously sprout overnight. One of my best friends had one, at least an inch long, on her face, and it was dark, and I would have noticed it if it had been there the day before. But it appeared out of nowhere! Can someone please explain to me why any kind of benevolent Deity would do this to us??
We already have to tame the hair that we expect: monthly salon visits, regular bikini waxes, new razor blades to shave legs/underarms. Some girls have to bleach or wax their upper lips and even their arms. So why, God, why add these insane, disgusting, completely unexpected little bastards to our lives? With the amount of effort, time, and money we already spend on hair control, I think it's cruel and sick that I have to check my entire body any time my boyfriend isn't in the room, in case a long hair has grown from my elbow or (god forbid) my back or (god FORBID) my chest.
I know this was a bit of a non-sequitur, but I'm feeling pretty shaken. To any guys that read this post, I'm sorry if I grossed you out, but that was the risk I had to take to make this secret shame public. We can't keep pretending we're hairless! Not that we should stop shaving/waxing/etc, because ew, but you guys should damn well appreciate what we go through! And maybe wax for us, just once.

I'm melting, meeeeeeeeeeelting!

2008-02-07T01:35:00.000-08:00

Just a quickie:
As a rule, I try not to blame society for all my self-loathing and such, because 'society' is such an undefinable, intangible entity, and plus I don't want to be a cliche. But the fact that I've spent the past 5 years HATING Ugg boots and the last 5 weeks cruising for them online tells me that something is leaking into my brain through the cracks between lobes and INFILTRATING. It's sick.

For the record, I refuse to spend $300 on a pair of heinous sheepskin sacks. So I bought the £15 knockoffs.

I'm telling.

2008-02-04T06:11:00.000-08:00

It’s weird. My scars haven’t even faded yet, except in miraculously transparent patches, and I’m already forgetting they exist. Now, when I raise my arms to tie up my hair (something I would never have done in public just a year ago) and the man at the next table looks at me a little too long, I feel an urge to make sure I’ve shaved my armpits. It’s only when I not-so-slyly slide my fingers into my shirt that I feel the abnormally smooth stripe of skin and realize what the man was staring at.
And I’m so much less strict about hiding them. Last week at work I wore a sleeveless dress and one of the nurses asked about my scars, and I realized I hadn’t told anyone there about my weight loss and all my surgeries. Even the other receptionist, to whom I feel fairly close. And so I told the nurse, because I’ve always maintained that if I hide my history with surgery then I don’t deserve the benefits of the procedures. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be ashamed of my plastic surgery, and I’m not, but for 4 months no one had asked, so I never said anything. Anyway, once I told her I felt like I’d been hiding it, and now everyone would know and talk about it (it’s that kind of office). So I told the other receptionist. She was surprised, but she didn’t seem to care that much, which made me feel like it was less of a big deal.
I just think it’s weird, trying to decide when and how to bring it up with new friends. Because it’s such an important part of who I am; you can’t really know me if you don’t know the story of my weight and body image issues. But at the same time, it’s such a weird, personal thing to bring up, especially with new people. I remember the first time I brought it up with the gay boyfriends. Robert looked at me like he was shocked, like he was surprised I hadn’t mentioned it sooner, maybe. And Ryan came in halfway through the discussion and had to be breezily brought up to speed. And I’m glad I told them, but it was also weird because I hadn’t said anything through the multiple (somewhat scathing on their parts) conversations we’d had about plastic surgery.
That’s the thing, it permeates almost all conversations. Body image, plastic surgery, Britney Spears being too fat to dance in that skimpy outfit at the VMA’s, Nicole Ritchie being too skinny to get pregnant (or so we thought); so many of the things we talk about in our society have something to do with fat or image or the superficial nature of our society (how sad, say those who’ve never really had to alter their bodies to fit in). Slender, or just normal, people talk about these things so easily. They’re detached. It’s just a conversation. But to me it’s always more. I’m always projecting. And when people know my history I get the sense they’re always self-editing. I don’t want that, really. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. I know I don’t want to be “that girl with a cause,” one of those people who can’t let others think on their own without trying to change their minds.
I guess I want honesty, but I also want people to realize that what they’re talking about is extremely personal to a lot of people. It’s not just an epidemic to be cured by science or disdain. It’s people. People like me. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop projecting, but then I don’t think I want to.

My inner critic is still fat.

2008-01-15T09:58:00.000-08:00

Tonight my boyfriend said he loved my stomach, and I couldn’t help telling him I’d let my doctor know. Then, when he looked me in the eyes and told me that if we’d met before my surgeries he’d still have loved me, I couldn’t believe him. And I told him that. I couldn’t just say “aw thanks, honey,” I had to go on about how he would have liked me as a friend, thought I was funny, a funny fat girl, but he would never have been attracted to me. Which, in all fairness, is unfair to him. He probably is the kind of guy who would have loved me anyway, but I never wanted to be loved in spite of the way I looked. Being fat was a catch-22 for any guy who might have loved me (not that anyone did, to my knowledge): if you love me for my personality, you must think I’m disgusting and are just looking past my looks, which makes you shallow. On the other hand, if you love the way I look, you are obviously deranged because I’m disgusting, and therefore you’re completely un-datable as a result of being unhinged. And the thing is, I would never have thought that about any guy who loved a different fat girl. It was only my fat that I hated with such venom. And apparently, despite all the physical and mental changes I’ve undergone since then, a good portion of me still feels like that fat girl, and still hates myself just as much. Poor guy, he probably never saw it coming until it was too late. By the time he saw the scars and got the story he was in too deep.
Sucks to be him.

My Little Triangle

2008-01-12T11:49:00.000-08:00

I found this written in one of my many random notebooks when I was cleaning the apartment today. I wrote it back in September when I had just moved to London:

I saw a beautiful thing the other night. I was kneeling on the bed, leaning down on my elbows in a pathetic attempt to ease my stomach ache, when I happened to glance down my body. There, where my upper thighs have always met, for as long as I can remember, was a beautiful, shining triangle of light, a beacon of the life I’d always wished for and had never had. I lay there like that, on my elbows and knees, stomach-ache completely forgotten, and stared at that triangle of light, willing it to stay. Eventually, when I felt more confident that it wouldn’t just vanish unexpectedly, I began to test my triangle. I made sure my knees were pressed tightly together and shifted my hips, putting my weight first on one knee and then the other. My triangle twinkled cheerfully back at me. of course it was around this time that my boyfriend walked into the room and saw me on all fours on the bed, staring at my crotch as I did a slow little dance from side to side. Damn cohabitation.

Raggedy Anne

2008-01-07T06:21:00.000-08:00

Raggedy Anne:
Secrets of a Parts-Jumble Princess

(This is the original, from which "Ongoing Process" was created)

My brother’s name is Andrew. We never really called him Andy, and the coincidence was unintentional, or so my parents claim, but I’m sure we must have cleaned out the KB Toys stock of Raggedy Sibling dolls by the time we reached puberty. Puberty, incidentally, is about the point at which my weight became a problem, “a concern” to me, my family, and random strangers on the street.
Unlike most fat kids, I was pretty popular. I was even the object of a crush every now and again. Of course I had my moments of miserable reality-check, but generally I was pretty happy, shockingly carefree. Most of the time. I grew up in a small suburb of LA, where I lived a sheltered enough life that my only tormentor was my brother, and even he wasn’t half as bad as he could have been, in retrospect. When I was ten, and just getting past ‘chubby,’ my parents moved us to San Francisco (just in time; if I’d stayed long enough to be aware of my cookie-cutter surroundings I would have drowned myself in the ocean before an audience of slackjawed bikinied blonde volleyballers), and I went headfirst into what should have been chubby pre-pubescent-girl hell: Katherine Delmar Burke School for Girls.
Once again, due to either my extremely strong powers of deflection via self-deprecation or my stubborn refusal to ever show weakness (of heart, chin, or especially muscle), I avoided torment. At least, I avoided drama directed at me, personally. There were certainly some comments made behind my back, and there were a couple of random occurrences of Danielle Steele’s lovely daughters asserting their dominance, but in general I was well-liked. Of course, with the mortifying exception of Midweeklies ballroom dancing class in seventh grade (that’s a whole different essay), my exposure to and interaction with boys was limited to my older brother’s friends, and I was definitely not willowy enough to compete with the girls at their school.
Somewhere between eighth grade and my first year of high school, I got fat. Like, really fat. Maybe it’s the uniform, which my mother altered so surprisingly lovingly, but when I look at photos from eighth grade I don’t think I look that fat. But pictures from freshman year of high school still shock me. Who is that heavyset girl? That…fat girl? Nonetheless, I was exceedingly popular for about five minutes, changing my hair color to a different shade of red every three weeks and scouring Lane Bryant for young-people clothes until I had a sufficiently cute style for a fat girl. I altered what I could, accessorized my fat with all things one-size-fits-all, and managed to hide behind jewelry and hair dye for a short while at least, until I decided I hated this new bubbly me and retreated far from that person, backing rapidly into the metaphoric caves of the high school Gollums. My nerd friends stuck by me, never once agreeing with my laments about my body, and I wish I could say I stuck by them, but when I bounced back onto middle ground I left all but one behind.
When I was sixteen, at the end of my sophomore year, I read an article in The New Yorker about Gastric Bypass surgery. I won’t gross you out with a description. If you really need details, or if you’re an aspiring Bariatric surgeon, look it up. Google it. All you need to know is that it makes people thin(ner) and it’s controversial. Oh, and Carnie Wilson. My dad, from whom I may or may not have inherited my heft, depending on which doctor or research scientist you consult (although I certainly got his mom’s hips and slanted femurs; thanks, Eenie!), but who was certainly heavy, had the exact (and classic for my dad) reaction I was looking for. He glanced at the title, skimmed the article, said “sign me up!” and proceeded to avoid mentioning it again until he’d already talked to my mom and had his secretary find an info session for us. He even spent the next few months gaining weight so he’d qualify for the surgery (I was already an ideal patient), a rare show of emotional support, albeit a fun and tasty one for him. Really, the whole thing was handled surprisingly well by my family (although my sister did cry at me for an hour the night before my surgery for not telling her earlier). No insurance worries, no pressure to keep trying (I’d tried, and my life had more recently been reduced to a string of fat camps and breakfast shakes, but a lot of people have tried a lot harder and succeeded. Or failed), they just forked over the cash and the following December my pops and I got into our open-backed dresses and counted backwards from ten.
Recovery sucked. A lot. Again, you don’t need to know the details. All you need to know is this: two weeks of chicken broth and Jell-O and then a month of hunched walking, regular puking, and lies to friends (with the exception of those closest to me, whom I’d already told, and one of whom, who’d attended Burke’s with me, apparently shouted the news to the world a few months later). But the results are the important part. Thirty pounds in two weeks. A hundred by the end of the summer. An Extreme-Makeover-esque ‘reveal’ in the fall. A slightly uncomfortably very social (although still completely asexual as far as anyone else knew) senior year. I got everything I wanted. I was happy. er.
You don’t lose a hundred pounds without some leftover grossness, even if you’re seventeen and have fantastic elasticity. Hey, you should see my fifty-something dad in a swimsuit. And again, parental support and funds to the rescue. Also to the rescue: Dr James Romano, one of the best surgeons in the US and sculptor of human flesh. Found by dumb luck online and within walking distance of my house in San Francisco. With the exception of the luck that started all this, I was basically a walking rabbit’s foot. The summer after my sophomore year in college (and after much personal growth of course, and even a first relationship, if you could call it that. Bastard.), I went under the knife again. This time the results increased my happiness exponentially. Whereas I’d never really accepted that I was fat before, and never really felt thin after the first surgery, now (once the swelling went down a little) I actually felt really good. About the two parts of my body I’d had cut and sewn. But I wasn’t done hating myself. I’m not done.
With three surgical procedures under my belt (literally, the scar that runs from one broad hip to the other) and one final operation scheduled for July, my body changes more frequently and more drastically than the average college-aged female. Even the really disciplined ones. Thus, along with procrastination and watching every episode of Sex and the City available on DVD over eight times, one of the habits college has cemented in me is staring at myself, critiquing my own work and my doctor’s. At first it was nothing all too different from the usual girlish insecurities about a not-so-girlish (but much too womanly) figure; I’d sit in lectures and look surreptitiously around at all the girls in my sight, evaluating their stomach rolls and the firmness of their upper arms and then comparing my own sucked-in abdomen and sleeve-draped limbs. However, as the months passed and my body shifted its shape via exercise, surgery-altered intake, and eventually cosmetic operations, my subtle observations and comparisons morphed too, into something shameful enough to be hidden from even my closest friends.
There’s an episode of Sex and the City that relates pretty directly to my life right now (not that they don’t all relate to my life, to every young female life, in some way or another). Carrie (boys, that’s the main character, she’s a little annoying) is about to move in with Aidan (hot wonderful boyfriend whom she destroys twice), and she’s freaking out to her girlfriends (they do this every episode) about having to give up her ‘Secret Single Behavior.’ For Carrie, this means stacking saltine crackers with grape jelly on them, and eating them standing up in the kitchen, reading fashion magazines. For Miranda (the smart, less attractive one), it means putting on conditioning gloves and watching infomercials.
For me, this Secret Single Behavior has come to mean taking my self-inspection to a whole new, drastically inappropriate level. I’ll thank you not to imagine this: I sit in my room, clothed or not, it doesn’t make a difference, and stare at myself in a mirror from all angles, in different everyday positions, practicing sitting and standing in the most slimming poses. From that beginning, the behavior has only narrowed; soon I was ignoring the mirror and looking directly at my flesh, poking and prodding, pinching and pulling, trying to see what I could change and what I could live with, what was too disgusting to be borne and what was an achievement of willpower and scalpels.
Since the cosmetic surgeries my attitude has gotten better; there are at least as many body parts that I love as hate. But I haven’t stopped poking and critiquing. I still touch my body more than is entirely appropriate, my fingers lingering longer over the few truly hard parts. I cherish the bones that appeared that summer when I was seventeen (it was a very good year): my collarbone, my wrist and ankle bones, my hipbones if I lie on my back just so and push down hard with an index finger. Today, my forehead itched, and I found myself rubbing it with a little too much zeal, relishing the way the skin moved over the bone, so little fat in between. I’m supposed to move in with my boyfriend in August, and even though I know I should be glad that the new living situation will either cut down drastically on this obsession or even end it all together, I’m terrified. There are a million things I know I’ll eventually be able to do in front of him, like pick at my face or pumice my feet or pluck my eyebrows, but I’ll never be allowed to poke. Of course, if he did allow me to do so, I’d have to dump him immediately. I at least have that much self-respect. I think.
And the secrets don’t stop there. Another secret behavior I have is perhaps more shameful, given my liberal peers: I pray. Yes, I know, there is no God and if there were He or She wouldn’t give two shits about my problems, but I do it anyway. I’ve described my relationship with God to friends as a ‘loose acquaintanceship.’ We don’t spend much time together, and we’re not all that close, but if there’s no one else to hang out with He’s always there, and if I ever want to talk about something but I don’t really feel like having a conversation, if I just want to hear myself speak and work something out for myself without the complication of outside advice, His enormous, omniscient ear is always tilted my way. Or so I like to pretend. I don’t tell many people that I pray; it’s more of a habit than a religious thing, and I don’t like the associations that I feel come with such a ritual.
But even this secret pastime has been infiltrated by past and present insecurities. For years I’ve used a sort of stencil for prayers. I start with the traditional: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray thee lord my soul to take.” After that important bit, my requests went in order of importance: first, protect me and everyone I love, next, help keep me safe and healthy. In third place, both before and after my surgery, was always my weight. I believe the request was for aid in losing ‘major weight.’ (Actually, I’m lying. I know that was the wording; I used it for years, always exactly the same.) Minor weight was useless at that point. Once I reached a point where minor was all I needed to shed, I figured I could do it on my own or suck it up and deal; God didn’t need to be involved. Divine intervention is too much to ask when it comes to your garden-variety muffin top. I switched to prayers for sanity and social adeptness and started going to the gym more regularly. I started dating someone worthwhile, and traveled by myself through Italy, and slowly began to understand that I’m not as revolting as I’d like myself to think. But last week I slipped. I was tired, I was just going through the motions, and there it was: “please help me lose major–” I started awake at the realization that even now, it’s a constant and conscious battle to like myself.
I refuse to blame society for my own body image issues. Well, maybe just a little. I mean, it can’t help that when I told my trainer at Bally’s that I didn’t want to lose weight he cocked his head like a parrot mimicking understanding, but furrowed his brow like my mother used to when I would eat chocolate in her presence. Really? No weight loss goal? You sure? I just want to get in shape, I tried to explain. Not a smaller or more angular shape. I wanted to walk up the huge flight of stairs to campus without panting. Outrun my brother up the hill at our house in Napa. Eat ice cream and swim laps in the summer. Well, he said, in order to tone up you’re going to have to lose some weight too. I’m always going to have to lose some weight, until I learn to stop caring what trainers and tiny Jappy girls and big frat boys and my family and strangers and Gisele Bundchen and Kirstie Alley and my ex-boyfriend and my ex-crush and my high-school friends and my brother and that guy on the corner and more importantly what I think. I gave in, nodded wearily.
It also doesn’t help that I’m not alone in my body woes. You’d think it would. Misery loves company, right? At least you have your friends, and all that. Crock of shit. Seeing other people hate their bodies (and noting that their hated hips and bellies are significantly smaller than mine) makes me feel less supported and understood than shamed for slacking in my own self-hatred. On vacation in Budapest with two friends named Rachel, one a small curvy former anorexic and one tall and slender with a ninety-pound Japanese mother and a weight complex, I discovered the shallow depths of my insecurities. Or at least of my willpower. I always skip breakfast, and around these friends I’d usually have a salad for lunch, but somehow it didn’t seem like I was doing enough to hate myself. Little Rachel’s exclamation of “Good job!” (completely genuine) whenever tall Rachel or I missed a meal made me shrivel inside at the mere thought of the calories in a Hungarian brew. I made it through that vacation, and it actually made me sadder for them than for me (although it also made me sad for me, of course), because at least I was right about myself. I was still too fat. Am. But they’re both way too thin to think like they do.
I try to like myself. My writing, my social abilities, my body. Too often I have setbacks, and sometimes I overcome them easily, although more frequently they affect me for days and rear their ugly heads again long after I think I’ve gotten past them. Last week at the gym a man called me ‘thick.’ He posed it as a question: you gettin’ thick, aintcha? I was shocked. To the point that all I could do was agree, then proceed to kick myself for it all night, as his words burrowed deeper under my skin. They fester still. The funny thing is, I’m pretty sure he meant it as a compliment. Bastard.
The bottom line is that it’s my job to fix this stuff. I’m lucky to have had the opportunities to employ others’ help in changing the way I look, but if I can’t actually see the difference and apply it to the way I see myself, then what’s it all for? Why waste my parents’ money? Why waste my own time? Why go through the pain of recovery if I’m just going to tell myself I’m fat when I’m healed? All important questions, which of course I expect you to answer for me. Hey, I’ve tried. This is the quiz at the end of the essay. It’s your turn. Come on, don’t you want to help me? Bastards.
I know I’m the only one that can do it. Other people loving me can only ease the effect of my self-hatred. It can’t change it or erase it, as much as they want it to. In fact, it seems the only thing that can affect my own criticism of myself is someone else’s criticism of me. You know how you can say your brother’s an asshole, because he is, but if a friend says it you get all defensive? It’s like that, I guess. I can think I’m fat, but if anyone else so much as suggests it, even presents a comment to act as a blank canvas for my self-loathing projections, I’ll defend my fat ass to the death (with the embarrassing exception of that guy at the gym). I may hate me, but I’m family.
When I decided to have the cosmetic surgeries, I didn’t really worry about the scars. I still don’t, really. But they are noticeable. I notice. Other people notice. Some even enquire. They usually don’t bother me; my surgeon did an amazing job sewing me up, attaching me to myself. But every now and again, when I try to piece myself together in some kind of sensible way, combining my insecurities and my small confidences, my understandings and curiosities, my shyness and my gregariousness, I feel uneven. Sometimes I picture myself as the doll from The Nightmare Before Christmas, sort of a creepily attractive amalgamation of limbs and stitches. Sometimes the seams feel all but undetectable. But usually I fall back on my could-be namesake. Until I grow up enough to stop thinking of myself as a collection of parts and begin to understand that I can be whole if I just believe it, I’ll always be that weird, slightly scary but soft and comfy rag doll. Complete with fake red hair.

Introduction

2008-01-07T05:57:00.000-08:00

This is an experiment. For 2 years now I've been writing essays about body image, and more specifically about my own relationship with my body after 4 surgeries and multiple other changes. I'm posting those pieces of writing here and I'll be adding on whenever I have a somewhat original or new thought about things. There's no denying it's self-indulgent, but I figured since I'm mildly obsessed with reading about other people's body issues, maybe someone will be interested in reading about mine. Maybe I can even help someone feel like less of a freak. That is, unless no one else feels the same things I do, which would make me the freak, I guess...
Oh well, here goes!

Note: The first piece was written in late 2006, so things have changed a little. Bear with me as I try to put these in chronological order. And if there are repeated ideas or even phrases, I apologize; some of the pieces were born as revisions of others, so sometimes I get overlap.