I'm not a reality-TV kind of gal. In the main, I don't care for reality TV at all. I never got into American Idol, and I haven't ever seen an episode of Survivor or The Hills. (I mainly watch Joel McHale of The Soup trash The Hills.)
I will admit to an unhealthy fixation to Bravo's Top Chef, though I don't really consider that a Reality TV show. I got really into TC late in season 2, so I didn't really have a vested interest in who won. But, when Season 3 rolled around, I was there with bells on. My favorite didn't make it to the top three (C.J.), but once the three was revealed, I was pulling for Dale. When Season Four started, I was pulling for Richard Blais from the start. I thought he was great, and loved his adventuresome spirit. JF liked Stephanie, the eventual winner; so we argued the merits of each back and forth all season long.
I will also confess to a guilty pleasure of America's Got Talent, simply because I adore the total train-wreckiness of it. You never know what's going to turn up next on AGT, and there are often some very talented people hidden among the dreck. Unfortunately, there's a lot more dreck than gold, and I'm often totally blown away by how much confidence people have in themselves and their often dubious "talents." For example, a woman got up on stage the other night, claiming that everyone she meets is just astounded and in awe of her talents -- and then she barked at people. It was as freaky as if you'd awoken to realize that you live inside a Salvador Dalí painting.
At any rate, on the Fox network, I noticed a promo clip for an upcoming Reality show called "More to Love", featuring plus-sized women. The tagline screamed that the average American woman is about a size 12/14, and the average female reality show contestant is a size 2. Then the promo showcased lots of clips of the "More to Love" contestants, most of them crying and talking about how much they just want someone to love them how they are. Betcha dollars to donuts that the producers force the ladies to compete in either a) a humiliating eating contest of some sort, or b) a humiliating swimsuit competition. Or maybe both, if there's such a thing as summer ratings week.
I feel a fat rant (and my inner rage) building......
I don't know whether or not I can actually watch this series, knowing that it's most likely just another excuse to "poke fun at the fatties". I would love to hope that it will be a great show that showcases the fact that loveable and beautiful people come in all shapes and sizes and celebrates women who don't happen to fit society's very narrow standard of beauty, but somehow, I don't think it will be. Fox isn't exactly known for taking the high road.
The best I can hope for is that it's not too humiliating for the contestants, and for fat people in general. Most of you know by now how much I do not care for those who warp other people's opinions of themselves, and this seems to me to be a recipe for a whole huge honking slice of the demographic pie who will later need some serious therapy.
Showing posts with label Fat Rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fat Rants. Show all posts
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Rant, Sort of About Fat
My school system, like most, went on a crusade not too long ago about finding ways to combat childhood obesity. The nutrition program did away totally with white bread -- all the rolls they serve are wheat, and even the crust on pizza is wheat. They stopped serving "junk" food as often, like pizza and hot dogs, and started branching out with more spices and flavorings. So far the change has been positive, for the most part.
Quite a lot of our students get school lunch, but since a lot of them are economically disadvantaged, we have a fair number who get their meals either at a greatly reduced rate, or for free altogether. We also have a breakfast program that makes sure the kids have a hot breakfast in the morning to get their systems going. Most of our students eat everything you put in front of them. Grits, eggs, toast, pizza, vegetables, salisbury steak, whatever.
My one gripe is that the cafeteria has these little frozen dessert cups, kind of like Italian ices. They SELL these on the side. This is the one thing that they really make money on, so they push them pretty hard. At fifty cents each, they don't sound like much, but when a "discounted lunch" student can get an entire lunch for less than that, that's pretty hefty.
We have kids who'll go through the lunch line and get a slice of pizza (or whatever that day's entree is) and nothing else, and two of these stupid icee cups. They then proceed to eat nothing but the icee, and leave the pizza untouched. Now, you and I both know that these icees no nutritional value whatsoever, but these kids don't care about that. They want the sweet stuff, and they don't care if they're supposed to eat their lunch first or not.
What burns me up the most about it is not that the kid is eating sweets -- they're KIDS! They're going to do that! What really frosts my noonies is that if you were to take it away from them, you'd have a parent in your face so fast that your head would spin! I actually had a parent tell me one time that he didn't care if his kid ate only ice cream, because he'd be getting *some* nutrition. My thought was, "That's what the LUNCH you're getting for ***FREE*** is for!" Explain that to me! Explain why you think that the balanced lunch that you get for free (which is subsidized by our local taxes, by the way) is not nearly as healthful as a cup of lime sherbet?
Another kick in the pants is that our cafeteria knows that students only eating ice cups instead of lunch is a problem, yet they won't stop selling them because it makes them money. Yeah, that's really helping prevent childhood obesity.
Quite a lot of our students get school lunch, but since a lot of them are economically disadvantaged, we have a fair number who get their meals either at a greatly reduced rate, or for free altogether. We also have a breakfast program that makes sure the kids have a hot breakfast in the morning to get their systems going. Most of our students eat everything you put in front of them. Grits, eggs, toast, pizza, vegetables, salisbury steak, whatever.
My one gripe is that the cafeteria has these little frozen dessert cups, kind of like Italian ices. They SELL these on the side. This is the one thing that they really make money on, so they push them pretty hard. At fifty cents each, they don't sound like much, but when a "discounted lunch" student can get an entire lunch for less than that, that's pretty hefty.
We have kids who'll go through the lunch line and get a slice of pizza (or whatever that day's entree is) and nothing else, and two of these stupid icee cups. They then proceed to eat nothing but the icee, and leave the pizza untouched. Now, you and I both know that these icees no nutritional value whatsoever, but these kids don't care about that. They want the sweet stuff, and they don't care if they're supposed to eat their lunch first or not.
What burns me up the most about it is not that the kid is eating sweets -- they're KIDS! They're going to do that! What really frosts my noonies is that if you were to take it away from them, you'd have a parent in your face so fast that your head would spin! I actually had a parent tell me one time that he didn't care if his kid ate only ice cream, because he'd be getting *some* nutrition. My thought was, "That's what the LUNCH you're getting for ***FREE*** is for!" Explain that to me! Explain why you think that the balanced lunch that you get for free (which is subsidized by our local taxes, by the way) is not nearly as healthful as a cup of lime sherbet?
Another kick in the pants is that our cafeteria knows that students only eating ice cups instead of lunch is a problem, yet they won't stop selling them because it makes them money. Yeah, that's really helping prevent childhood obesity.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Proud Of Myself, Sort Of
Offspring and I got into a discussion yesterday about body images. While we were shopping, she asked me if she could have a box of the Girl Scout sugar-free Chocolate Chip cookies. I jokingly asked her why she wanted to bother with sugar-free. She mistook what I was saying, interpreting my comment as me calling her fat. I told her, right there and then that I was NOT trying to convey that to her AT ALL! What I was meaning with my remark is that a lot of people, me included, feel like if you're going to buy a box of Girl Scout cookies, you might as well buy the high-octane stuff! There's no sense in going easy with those babies! They're a once-a-year treat, and you shouldn't feel badly about having an extravagance every now and again.
I told Offspring all about how I promised myself a loooong time ago that I would never call her fat, however tacitly, and that I would do everything in my power to never harp on her or chide her about her weight. I spoke of how I've been made to feel less than beautiful, less than normal, just LESS in general because of my size. About how I never wanted that for her and about how I was made to feel so bad all my life that I could never do that to her. We talked for quite a bit about it, and then I tried to move on before "talk" turned into "lecture." It's a fine line I walk, that talk/lecture thing.... We went on about our day.
Then earlier today, I called my mother. She asked, as she always does, after Offspring, and how she's doing. I mentioned that she seems to be growing taller every day. Mom mentioned that the last time she saw Offspring that she'd gotten taller and lost a good bit of weight as well. I asked Mom not to belabor this too much to Offspring , and began to tell her about Offspring's mistaken assumption about my comment the day before. I told her that I knew what it felt like to be harped on all of your life about your weight. Mom took exception to that, saying that she never harped on me about my weight. I quietly said, "Yes, Mom. You did. Every time you told me that I would be "so pretty" if I'd just lose some weight." She stammered that she didn't mean it like that -- didn't I know what she meant? I told her that I knew she never meant to be hurtful, but that it was like telling me that I *wasn't* pretty. A lot. She got very quiet. We got off the phone shortly afterward.
I don't know what will happen now and if there'll be any fallout, but at least I finally told her how much it bothers me. If nothing else, I can be proud that I finally got that off my chest.
I told Offspring all about how I promised myself a loooong time ago that I would never call her fat, however tacitly, and that I would do everything in my power to never harp on her or chide her about her weight. I spoke of how I've been made to feel less than beautiful, less than normal, just LESS in general because of my size. About how I never wanted that for her and about how I was made to feel so bad all my life that I could never do that to her. We talked for quite a bit about it, and then I tried to move on before "talk" turned into "lecture." It's a fine line I walk, that talk/lecture thing.... We went on about our day.
Then earlier today, I called my mother. She asked, as she always does, after Offspring, and how she's doing. I mentioned that she seems to be growing taller every day. Mom mentioned that the last time she saw Offspring that she'd gotten taller and lost a good bit of weight as well. I asked Mom not to belabor this too much to Offspring , and began to tell her about Offspring's mistaken assumption about my comment the day before. I told her that I knew what it felt like to be harped on all of your life about your weight. Mom took exception to that, saying that she never harped on me about my weight. I quietly said, "Yes, Mom. You did. Every time you told me that I would be "so pretty" if I'd just lose some weight." She stammered that she didn't mean it like that -- didn't I know what she meant? I told her that I knew she never meant to be hurtful, but that it was like telling me that I *wasn't* pretty. A lot. She got very quiet. We got off the phone shortly afterward.
I don't know what will happen now and if there'll be any fallout, but at least I finally told her how much it bothers me. If nothing else, I can be proud that I finally got that off my chest.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Spock Takes On The Culture Of Fat
I was watching "The Colbert Report" last night, and the featured guest was Leonard Nimoy, known to most people as "Spock" from Star Trek. What a lot of people don't care to know is that Nimoy has also written a number of books, including poetry and photography.
Colbert had him on to promote his new book, called "The Full Body Project." This is a coffee-table style book that showcases women of all sizes. In the interview, Nimoy stated that his reason for making this book was that there is a generation of women, both young and old, who hold themselves up to the standards of conventional beauty. That we, as women, are being sold a bill of goods by society -- that we are not normal, and those models who can fit into those skimpy bits of cloth held together by bubblegum *are.* That they are right, and we are wrong.
I always liked Nimoy -- I thought he had a fairly good sense of humor, and didn't take himself too seriously but he has gone up several levels in my estimation. I am glad that he had the courage to not only turn out beautiful photographs, but to explain to the public that these women ARE beautiful. And the women who posed for the photos in the book? They are far braver than I could ever be, and I applaud them.
Colbert had him on to promote his new book, called "The Full Body Project." This is a coffee-table style book that showcases women of all sizes. In the interview, Nimoy stated that his reason for making this book was that there is a generation of women, both young and old, who hold themselves up to the standards of conventional beauty. That we, as women, are being sold a bill of goods by society -- that we are not normal, and those models who can fit into those skimpy bits of cloth held together by bubblegum *are.* That they are right, and we are wrong.
I always liked Nimoy -- I thought he had a fairly good sense of humor, and didn't take himself too seriously but he has gone up several levels in my estimation. I am glad that he had the courage to not only turn out beautiful photographs, but to explain to the public that these women ARE beautiful. And the women who posed for the photos in the book? They are far braver than I could ever be, and I applaud them.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Yet Another (Will They Ever Stop?!?) Fat Rant
Okay, before you all run away screaming bloody murder -- let me state that I will try to remain civil in this particular fat rant. "Try", mind you. Let's only hope that I'm more successful than my last attempts.
I was talking with a friend tonight who was telling me of a recent session with her therapist. The therapist is of the mind that most women who have been abused or sexually assaulted are overweight. I don't what she bases this opinion on -- are there studies? Does she see an inordinate number of abused women who are heavy?
At any rate, it hearkens back to something that my (very brief) therapist mentioned to me: do I stay fat because it's "safe"? I was told that maybe I choose to remain fat because it's a way that I desexualize myself; make myself less attractive to any would-be rapist. That somehow, being fat keeps me "safe." That those layers of fat protect me from the world. And, that I remain fat even now because it's all I've ever known, and I wouldn't know how to relate to myself without that crutch.
I am not exaggerating to say that I was highly pissed off by this notion. Would anyone ever *choose* to be ridiculed by both family and strangers? Rationally, I know that rape is not about sex, but about power and control. Sure, rapists often target women that they find attractive on some level, but being fat is no 'get out of jail free' card. Fat women are raped quite often. There's no reason involved, just the proclivities of the rapist.
For this person to say this -- this person who was supposed to be HELPING me -- was an utter betrayal. I just hope my friend who is hearing it now deals with it better than I did. Obviously, I'm still insulating myself from the pain of the world by remaining fat, and giving the mental finger to any rapists on the make out there. Just doing my part.
I was talking with a friend tonight who was telling me of a recent session with her therapist. The therapist is of the mind that most women who have been abused or sexually assaulted are overweight. I don't what she bases this opinion on -- are there studies? Does she see an inordinate number of abused women who are heavy?
At any rate, it hearkens back to something that my (very brief) therapist mentioned to me: do I stay fat because it's "safe"? I was told that maybe I choose to remain fat because it's a way that I desexualize myself; make myself less attractive to any would-be rapist. That somehow, being fat keeps me "safe." That those layers of fat protect me from the world. And, that I remain fat even now because it's all I've ever known, and I wouldn't know how to relate to myself without that crutch.
I am not exaggerating to say that I was highly pissed off by this notion. Would anyone ever *choose* to be ridiculed by both family and strangers? Rationally, I know that rape is not about sex, but about power and control. Sure, rapists often target women that they find attractive on some level, but being fat is no 'get out of jail free' card. Fat women are raped quite often. There's no reason involved, just the proclivities of the rapist.
For this person to say this -- this person who was supposed to be HELPING me -- was an utter betrayal. I just hope my friend who is hearing it now deals with it better than I did. Obviously, I'm still insulating myself from the pain of the world by remaining fat, and giving the mental finger to any rapists on the make out there. Just doing my part.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Um....okay....
The other day, I mentioned that I had a strange experience that I might share. Lemmee 'splain.
I have a lady who I term my "dealer" who supplies me with craft supplies and plenty of inspiration for projects. She decided to have a "customer appreciation night" not so long ago, which would showcase the new items available and give her long-time customers a chance to muck about a bit with some of the new products. I decided to go. I've been in a bit of a crafting slump lately, and needed a kick in the pants to get my creative juices flowing.
When I arrived, there were about seven other people there, none of whom I knew. I felt sort of out of place, but I forgot all that once I started looking at all of the craft projects set up on various tables around her home. More people arrived, including three or four people I actually knew. We all meandered around, looking at the samples. Pretty soon, Dealer was explaining that we'd get to make one each of the samples on the table, and explained quickly how to craft all three examples. The group (of now about 24 women) splits up, with people going to various tables to make the projects laid out before them.
As the night winds down, having made their free projects and placed their orders, people sit in clumps and talk, or gather their things and begin to take their leave. I'm sitting on a couch, talking with a friend from the Girl Scout days when I'm approached by a lady whom I do not know. She says, "Hello, KLee. My name is (her name)
On the one hand, I'm always glad to have free clothes. (The fat lady clothes, they do not come cheap.) On the other hand, I'm slightly offended. I mean, even though her heart was in the right place, and she clearly knew what it was like to be heavy -- I was still slightly offended. She was very nice, and very sweet, but... I feel badly enough about the way I look without complete strangers mentioning it at parties, you know? I blushed beet red, I'm quite sure, but I took her up on her offer.
Upon opening the boxes, I discovered quite a few things that will stand me in good stead for the coming of the new school year. Khaki and black pants, and some more "business-y" attire that will go a long way towards sprucing up my frumpy image. But, as with every grab bag, every unknown, there were surprises. And a few things that did not make the hit parade.
Item number one is what I term an "old lady pantset." It's a top and bottom, made of turquoise blue-and-white checked gingham. There are pockets on the front bottom hem of the shirt featuring embroidered flowers and clover. Uh...no.
Item number two is a pair of plaid green and blue pants. They remind me of Catholic school uniforms. Not going on my body.
Number three inspired great hilarity in Amy. She demanded a picture. It's a red and grey plaid vest-and-shorts set. Now, either garment by themselves isn't particularly bad, but together? Like a fate worse than death. The photo above depicts said combo. The shorts are about knee length.
But by far, the item that garnered the most shudders from me was a pair of pleather pants. JF was very excited at the prospect of pleather pants, but his enthusiasm waned somewhat when I patiently explained that there was probably about a 5% chance of those pants actually appearing on my body. After all, I do not want to be mistaken for some plus sized rock star, do I? Or the cow from whence the pants (metaphorically) came. That would be just plain embarrassing.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Culture Of Fat Strikes Again
I have spent considerable time lamenting (read: complaining) about the perception of fat people in today's society. I have posted several times about the way the overweight are treated, and my reaction to the treatment that I receive at the hands of people who should most assuredly know better.
A lot of people feel that I have no right to complain because I was the one who ate myself into this situation in the first place. Well, technically they're correct, but they don't need to be jerks about it. They were technically correct when they scoffed at all those people who threw "new millennium" parties on New Year's Eve 1999, saying that the new millennium didn't start until January 1st, 2001. *Technically* correct, but totally missing the whole point. And all the fun.
Some of the things that have really bothered me lately are things that most of you wouldn't think twice about. Like being comfortable in a movie theater seat -- you just sit down and enjoy the show, right? Depending on which theater I go to, I have to wedge myself into the seat, and sit in an uncomfortable position. I can never really give my undivided attention to the movie, because I'm always conscious of how uncomfortable I am.
Or, needing a wheelchair at the urgent care clinic. Most of you would just use the wheelchair, and not think further about it. I got a wheelchair into which I didn't fit. Not comfortably anyway. I didn't complain at the time because the discomfort of the chair was superseded by the pain in the foot, and because I was just plain grateful to be off the foot. It's hard enough to be out of commission as far as your own locomotion is concerned, but to be aware that you are going to have to struggle to release yourself from the confines of the wheelchair you're in? A particular sort of hell. Or to have to direct your spouse or child to ask at the desk whether or not they have a "larger size" chair that can accommodate you. Or needing a cast two sizes larger than what you should use because it won't fit around your large leg.
I won't even go into the black hole of depression that is trying on clothes.
But the thing that is bothering me the most is still the attitude of people. "Fat" is the last accepted prejudice. It's still okay to make fun of the fat, even within their hearing. In the past three weeks, I've had: people point and snicker at me while in the wheelchair because I was too heavy for my daughter to push over the threshold of the clinic; a movie theater attendant who "mooed" at me after he thought I was out of earshot; and my own father 'lovingly' ridicule me when I told him about my ankle incident -- I was telling him about how it all went down, and said I turned my ankle, and brought all my weight down on the twisted ankle. His reply was, "And you got a lot of weight to be putting on that ankle!"
I would go on and on about how it's not acceptable to make fun of minorities or the like, but it won't do any good. Most people don't care about offending the fat. They don't care if we are hurt or even if we have feelings TO hurt. They see it as their right -- as a fitting punishment for the weak and for those with no willpower. And I'm getting so tired of fighting the battle.
A lot of people feel that I have no right to complain because I was the one who ate myself into this situation in the first place. Well, technically they're correct, but they don't need to be jerks about it. They were technically correct when they scoffed at all those people who threw "new millennium" parties on New Year's Eve 1999, saying that the new millennium didn't start until January 1st, 2001. *Technically* correct, but totally missing the whole point. And all the fun.
Some of the things that have really bothered me lately are things that most of you wouldn't think twice about. Like being comfortable in a movie theater seat -- you just sit down and enjoy the show, right? Depending on which theater I go to, I have to wedge myself into the seat, and sit in an uncomfortable position. I can never really give my undivided attention to the movie, because I'm always conscious of how uncomfortable I am.
Or, needing a wheelchair at the urgent care clinic. Most of you would just use the wheelchair, and not think further about it. I got a wheelchair into which I didn't fit. Not comfortably anyway. I didn't complain at the time because the discomfort of the chair was superseded by the pain in the foot, and because I was just plain grateful to be off the foot. It's hard enough to be out of commission as far as your own locomotion is concerned, but to be aware that you are going to have to struggle to release yourself from the confines of the wheelchair you're in? A particular sort of hell. Or to have to direct your spouse or child to ask at the desk whether or not they have a "larger size" chair that can accommodate you. Or needing a cast two sizes larger than what you should use because it won't fit around your large leg.
I won't even go into the black hole of depression that is trying on clothes.
But the thing that is bothering me the most is still the attitude of people. "Fat" is the last accepted prejudice. It's still okay to make fun of the fat, even within their hearing. In the past three weeks, I've had: people point and snicker at me while in the wheelchair because I was too heavy for my daughter to push over the threshold of the clinic; a movie theater attendant who "mooed" at me after he thought I was out of earshot; and my own father 'lovingly' ridicule me when I told him about my ankle incident -- I was telling him about how it all went down, and said I turned my ankle, and brought all my weight down on the twisted ankle. His reply was, "And you got a lot of weight to be putting on that ankle!"
I would go on and on about how it's not acceptable to make fun of minorities or the like, but it won't do any good. Most people don't care about offending the fat. They don't care if we are hurt or even if we have feelings TO hurt. They see it as their right -- as a fitting punishment for the weak and for those with no willpower. And I'm getting so tired of fighting the battle.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Awful Spiral
I've posted quite a bit, both here and in comments on other people's blogs, about my weight, and my issues with it. I know it has to be boring, constantly reading about the same topic over and over, but it's intrinsically tied up with who am I and the kind of person I've turned out to be.
For a long time, I just assumed that I was heftier than other people due to genetics. My parents weren't overly large, but other people in my family were. My paternal grandmother has always been a rather rotund woman, and one of my mother's sisters has been slightly beefy. I also have three female cousins who have struggled with weight just as I have. I told myself that I come from hearty, peasant stock -- we're big people! Just deal with it. Or, like how both of my parents are olive-skinned, and I'm the almost translucent one -- genetics. I'm a throwback to earlier branches on my family tree.
As I got older, and moved to more sedentary jobs, I didn't (and still don't) get nearly the exercise that I should. I do run around after children all day, so it's not like I have NO exercise, but it's not as much as it once was. I also don't have the best eating habits. I don't like eating breakfast too early , and have to force myself to each a little something every morning. All the foods I love are the ones that are terrible for you. I do love fruit, and some vegetables, but I need more of both of them in my diet. I eat all the bad stuff, and too little of the good stuff.
As for that dreaded word: diet... I hate diets. I hate restricting myself to certain foods. And, I can't follow a lot of prepackaged plans because most of them rely heavily on you eating mounds and mounds of tuna fish. When I have to deny myself all the things I enjoy, I get terribly depressed, and end up sneaking or cheating anyway. Then, I get depressed because I cheated, and deny myself even more, and then I slip... and there's the spiral.
In my brief therapy sessions, the doctor wondered if I mask my pain by eating. If I stay fat *on purpose* in order to shield myself from life. I don't think I eat to cover any pain, but I do think that being fat, in an awful way, feels "safe" to me. It's what I know. I have been fat since about age 10. That's more than a quarter-century of my life that I have lived this way. That I have felt this way. *Do* I remain fat on purpose? Do I really have that much control over the situation? I know if I could choose to be thin, I would -- it's just the "getting there" part that takes so much trouble. Would I be happy being thin, or would I find something else to obsess over? It's that self-defeating spiral again.
I recently had a talk with Marni about weight, and weight issues. She had gastric bypass two years ago, and it has changed her life. I'm so glad that she was about to escape the horror of being "just another fat lady", and I applaud her decision to have the surgery. She says her life is completely different now. She even participated in the Atlanta 2-Day Walk for Breast Cancer. This is a monumental change for her. I'm not sure, however, that surgery would be right for me. I have this feeling like my weight is something I got myself into, and I should be able to get myself out of. Surgery is a very radical option when all I'm facing is sheer laziness. Now, if I had tried every diet out there, and exercised like a madwoman, and the weight still wasn't coming off, then surgery might be an option.
If I ever did have the surgery, would I still be me? So much of who I am is tied up in being fat, and in identifying with the other women who are like me -- and in championing the rights of people like me -- that I worry that I would lose sight of that. And that I'd still be the fat, unloved girl, trapped in the now-thin body. Would my husband still love me? Or worse, would he love me more -- making me feel like all those years that he told me I was beautiful "just as I am" were a lie? Would my daughter be a little more proud to be seen with me? Am I an embarrasment now? Would my mother actually tell me that I look good, without making a comment that she's "just worried about my health"? And my doctor wouldn't attribute every medical problem I have to "morbid obesity." Would I even HAVE any of these medical problems?
I wonder what it would be like to walk into any store and find something that fits me, right off the rack. I wonder what it would be like not to cover every exposed inch of skin because I can't stand the sight of so much of my own flesh. I wonder what it would feel like to have a man staring at me in admiration, not repulsion. I wonder what it would be like to plan a vaction, and not have to worry if I'll fit in the theme park rides, or we that can't go horseback riding because the horses can't carry me. I wonder what it would be like to walk down the street and NOT have people make jokes or snide remarks. I wonder what it would feel like NOT to be described as the "fat lady." I wonder. And I dream.
Some days, I am heavy. And some days, only my heart is heavy.
For a long time, I just assumed that I was heftier than other people due to genetics. My parents weren't overly large, but other people in my family were. My paternal grandmother has always been a rather rotund woman, and one of my mother's sisters has been slightly beefy. I also have three female cousins who have struggled with weight just as I have. I told myself that I come from hearty, peasant stock -- we're big people! Just deal with it. Or, like how both of my parents are olive-skinned, and I'm the almost translucent one -- genetics. I'm a throwback to earlier branches on my family tree.
As I got older, and moved to more sedentary jobs, I didn't (and still don't) get nearly the exercise that I should. I do run around after children all day, so it's not like I have NO exercise, but it's not as much as it once was. I also don't have the best eating habits. I don't like eating breakfast too early , and have to force myself to each a little something every morning. All the foods I love are the ones that are terrible for you. I do love fruit, and some vegetables, but I need more of both of them in my diet. I eat all the bad stuff, and too little of the good stuff.
As for that dreaded word: diet... I hate diets. I hate restricting myself to certain foods. And, I can't follow a lot of prepackaged plans because most of them rely heavily on you eating mounds and mounds of tuna fish. When I have to deny myself all the things I enjoy, I get terribly depressed, and end up sneaking or cheating anyway. Then, I get depressed because I cheated, and deny myself even more, and then I slip... and there's the spiral.
In my brief therapy sessions, the doctor wondered if I mask my pain by eating. If I stay fat *on purpose* in order to shield myself from life. I don't think I eat to cover any pain, but I do think that being fat, in an awful way, feels "safe" to me. It's what I know. I have been fat since about age 10. That's more than a quarter-century of my life that I have lived this way. That I have felt this way. *Do* I remain fat on purpose? Do I really have that much control over the situation? I know if I could choose to be thin, I would -- it's just the "getting there" part that takes so much trouble. Would I be happy being thin, or would I find something else to obsess over? It's that self-defeating spiral again.
I recently had a talk with Marni about weight, and weight issues. She had gastric bypass two years ago, and it has changed her life. I'm so glad that she was about to escape the horror of being "just another fat lady", and I applaud her decision to have the surgery. She says her life is completely different now. She even participated in the Atlanta 2-Day Walk for Breast Cancer. This is a monumental change for her. I'm not sure, however, that surgery would be right for me. I have this feeling like my weight is something I got myself into, and I should be able to get myself out of. Surgery is a very radical option when all I'm facing is sheer laziness. Now, if I had tried every diet out there, and exercised like a madwoman, and the weight still wasn't coming off, then surgery might be an option.
If I ever did have the surgery, would I still be me? So much of who I am is tied up in being fat, and in identifying with the other women who are like me -- and in championing the rights of people like me -- that I worry that I would lose sight of that. And that I'd still be the fat, unloved girl, trapped in the now-thin body. Would my husband still love me? Or worse, would he love me more -- making me feel like all those years that he told me I was beautiful "just as I am" were a lie? Would my daughter be a little more proud to be seen with me? Am I an embarrasment now? Would my mother actually tell me that I look good, without making a comment that she's "just worried about my health"? And my doctor wouldn't attribute every medical problem I have to "morbid obesity." Would I even HAVE any of these medical problems?
I wonder what it would be like to walk into any store and find something that fits me, right off the rack. I wonder what it would be like not to cover every exposed inch of skin because I can't stand the sight of so much of my own flesh. I wonder what it would feel like to have a man staring at me in admiration, not repulsion. I wonder what it would be like to plan a vaction, and not have to worry if I'll fit in the theme park rides, or we that can't go horseback riding because the horses can't carry me. I wonder what it would be like to walk down the street and NOT have people make jokes or snide remarks. I wonder what it would feel like NOT to be described as the "fat lady." I wonder. And I dream.
Some days, I am heavy. And some days, only my heart is heavy.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Lumpy
I mentioned trying to lose some weight in various postings -- here, and on other blogs' comments. I have always been large, so my struggles with weight are lifelong. This is, by no means, a new development.
I tend to use humor to diffuse rude comments about my weight. When people ask rude questions, most of the time, I try to make a self-deprecating joke -- it hurts less when *I'm* the one doing the put-downs. I guess it's a sort of a defense mechanism.
When I became friends with an online group devoted to the TV show "Homicide: Life on the Street," we all praised the show for starring "normal" looking people. The original stars were regular Joes, not beauty queens and GQ models. We often described some of the characters as "lumpy." This was, in our estimation, a good thing as far as realism of the show was concerned. Real poh-leece don't look like they stepped off of the fashion runway! They look tired, harried, and busy, just like the rest of the world does. I tended to apply the term "lumpy" to myself as well.
A few years ago, when Offspring was about three or four, people around me started noticing a lump on the back of my neck. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't bothering me in any way, so I didn't think much about it. I just figured I was putting the truth to my designation as "lumpy." I went to have lunch with my mother one day, and a co-worker of hers stopped me in the hallway to ask about the lump. It turns out that she had had something similar, and wanted to know if I ever had my lump checked out. She had had Cushing's Syndrome, which is a type of endocrine/hormonal disorder. She had a tumor on her adrenal gland, and the hypercortisolism was making her gain weight in her torso, and she had this fatty deposit like a dowager's hump on the back of her neck. She wondered, looking at my hump, if I might have the same thing.
I went online to various places, and printed out information about Cushing's, just to see if I needed to request a test for this from my family doctor. All the symptoms are just vague enough that probably 3/4's of the world would qualify: Upper body fat -- check. Lumpy neck -- check. Thin skin that often cracks -- double check. Stretch marks -- BIG check. Rounded, "Moon Pie" face -- yeah. Irregular or stopped menstrual periods -- yup. Decreased libido -- uh-huh. Putting all this info together, I called my doc's office. I made an appointment. When I arrived, I had to explain to my doc what Cushing's was. I showed her the information I had gleaned from various sources. Together, we looked through all of it, and decided that even though the symptoms were vague, I had enough of them to warrant a test. Dr. T. makes an appointment for me with an endocrine doctor. Based on his assessment, and Dr. T's best guess, we decide to do the test.
The definitive test at the time (and it might still be, for all I know) is a 24 hour urine sample. The urine is tested, and is supposed to fall into a category numbered from around 1 to 7. If your urine is on one end of the spectrum, you're normal. On the other end, you have Cushing's. Dr. T. and I talk about what the test results might show. Dr. T. calls me back, and tells me that, according to the test readings, I have Cushing's. We discuss treatment options. Based on the hump, Dr. T. thinks that it's likely that my tumor is at the base of the brain, but that we'll have to do CAT scans and MRI's in order to be sure. The treatment is much the same as chemotherapy. I'll have to have surgery -- basically, brain surgery -- to get rid of the tumor. I get this news on a Friday. Dr. T. tells me to break the news to my family, and to come in on Monday, and we'll set up all the necessary scans and tests at the hospital.
I tell JF, and we both panic. I try and explain to my little one that Mommy will be very sick, and in the hospital for a while. I even write out my will. I decide that I'll do whatever I have to do in order to be around for the next 75 years. I'll fight it! I'll become an expert on Cushing's overnight! In the cold dawn of Monday morning, however, I get a call from a sheepish Dr. T. -- she's read the results *completely* backwards! I *don't* have Cushing's. I never did. It was a new doctor, reading unfamiliar test results. I'm so relieved that being angry is the farthest thing from my mind. It turns out I'm just lumpy after all.
I tend to use humor to diffuse rude comments about my weight. When people ask rude questions, most of the time, I try to make a self-deprecating joke -- it hurts less when *I'm* the one doing the put-downs. I guess it's a sort of a defense mechanism.
When I became friends with an online group devoted to the TV show "Homicide: Life on the Street," we all praised the show for starring "normal" looking people. The original stars were regular Joes, not beauty queens and GQ models. We often described some of the characters as "lumpy." This was, in our estimation, a good thing as far as realism of the show was concerned. Real poh-leece don't look like they stepped off of the fashion runway! They look tired, harried, and busy, just like the rest of the world does. I tended to apply the term "lumpy" to myself as well.
A few years ago, when Offspring was about three or four, people around me started noticing a lump on the back of my neck. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't bothering me in any way, so I didn't think much about it. I just figured I was putting the truth to my designation as "lumpy." I went to have lunch with my mother one day, and a co-worker of hers stopped me in the hallway to ask about the lump. It turns out that she had had something similar, and wanted to know if I ever had my lump checked out. She had had Cushing's Syndrome, which is a type of endocrine/hormonal disorder. She had a tumor on her adrenal gland, and the hypercortisolism was making her gain weight in her torso, and she had this fatty deposit like a dowager's hump on the back of her neck. She wondered, looking at my hump, if I might have the same thing.
I went online to various places, and printed out information about Cushing's, just to see if I needed to request a test for this from my family doctor. All the symptoms are just vague enough that probably 3/4's of the world would qualify: Upper body fat -- check. Lumpy neck -- check. Thin skin that often cracks -- double check. Stretch marks -- BIG check. Rounded, "Moon Pie" face -- yeah. Irregular or stopped menstrual periods -- yup. Decreased libido -- uh-huh. Putting all this info together, I called my doc's office. I made an appointment. When I arrived, I had to explain to my doc what Cushing's was. I showed her the information I had gleaned from various sources. Together, we looked through all of it, and decided that even though the symptoms were vague, I had enough of them to warrant a test. Dr. T. makes an appointment for me with an endocrine doctor. Based on his assessment, and Dr. T's best guess, we decide to do the test.
The definitive test at the time (and it might still be, for all I know) is a 24 hour urine sample. The urine is tested, and is supposed to fall into a category numbered from around 1 to 7. If your urine is on one end of the spectrum, you're normal. On the other end, you have Cushing's. Dr. T. and I talk about what the test results might show. Dr. T. calls me back, and tells me that, according to the test readings, I have Cushing's. We discuss treatment options. Based on the hump, Dr. T. thinks that it's likely that my tumor is at the base of the brain, but that we'll have to do CAT scans and MRI's in order to be sure. The treatment is much the same as chemotherapy. I'll have to have surgery -- basically, brain surgery -- to get rid of the tumor. I get this news on a Friday. Dr. T. tells me to break the news to my family, and to come in on Monday, and we'll set up all the necessary scans and tests at the hospital.
I tell JF, and we both panic. I try and explain to my little one that Mommy will be very sick, and in the hospital for a while. I even write out my will. I decide that I'll do whatever I have to do in order to be around for the next 75 years. I'll fight it! I'll become an expert on Cushing's overnight! In the cold dawn of Monday morning, however, I get a call from a sheepish Dr. T. -- she's read the results *completely* backwards! I *don't* have Cushing's. I never did. It was a new doctor, reading unfamiliar test results. I'm so relieved that being angry is the farthest thing from my mind. It turns out I'm just lumpy after all.
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