Not long ago I had this misfortune of reading this article. While I really dislike giving this piece any more traffic, I'm going to assume that a lot of people have already read this and try not to feel guilty for the additional hits.
This piece, by a "recovering" anorexic, is pretty much about how fat people are gross and the author would be physically ill if she was forced to merely watch them walk across the room.
Sweet gal, huh?
A lot of people were hurt by this article and for about five minutes I was too. It reminded me of how very unfair life is and how I was never given a chance to explain. How I want to say, "You know, I used to be even MORE fat! I'm actually looking really good these days! I'm thinner than I've been in years!"
I know it's stupid. That chick is so far into the closet of her own soul that she can't see past the demons lurking there. She doesn't care that I've lost an asston of weight. She doesn't care that I'm healthy, my cholesterol is good, I'm not diabetic nor do I fear diabetes, and she does not care that I can exercise and could probably long outlast her on a treadmill...that I can walk thirty-nine miles in two days and raise almost five thousand dollars for breast cancer. Even though I'm fat.
A lot of people don't care about that. She's not all that unusual. She's the mean girls at the gym who make snarky comments when they think I can't hear them (note to the mean girls: You are shrieky bitches. I can hear your harpie voices even WITH my headphones on). She's one of those girls who would look surprised when I started to run. She's one of those girls who will never see anyone's heart or get to know anyone as a person because they had big thighs. In a few years, when I'm thinner, she might even like me. But until then, she'd never even try. She admits she's never been in love and even though she was mean, it just makes me feel sad for her. Not surprised, but sad.
Ironically, the day I read this article just happened to be the same day that I had scheduled family pictures.
Something happened to me when I turned thirty-five. I'm not sure exactly why, but suddenly a huge crop of white hair sprang up in my crown. The wrinkles under my eyes (never cute) were suddenly more pronounced. I seriously considered yelling at a kid to get off my lawn.
In other words? I'm getting old. I feel it.
I try not to let it bother me. I'm NOT old. I'm getting oldER. That's inevitable.
But that day? It bothered me.
It bothered me because the night before I tried on three pairs of pants and asked Jason, "Do these pants make my butt look big?" My BUTT makes my butt look big, the pants have nothing to do with it.
Because? I have a big butt.
I have big thighs too. And big boobs. And, since we're getting technical, big hair.
This is what I look like.
And what I looked like that day was what mattered. Not for me to try my hardest to look like someone else or some elaborate version of myself. What mattered that day was that I wanted to capture what Jason's wife looked like in October 2010. What the Boy and Girl Child's mother looked like. Who I was, that very day.
Maybe next year I'll be thinner. Maybe my hair will be different (unlikely). Maybe I'll stop doing that really bad squinty thing that I'm prone to do when I smile. Maybe I'll look like someone else entirely.
But it doesn't matter. This is what I look like right now:
I can't be anyone else. I'm not even going to try.