Archive for January 11th, 2010
Don’t revolt. My title’s not referring to the F word you’re thinking of. (Potty mouth!) I’m thinking of the other F word–
Fat.
Most of my adult life (for me, it began at age 19, when I got married), I’ve thought of and referred to myself as fat. The fat girl, fatso, fatty-licious. Even my dad calls me Fat Girl (and I call him Shorty). I know it’s negative and self-defeating, according to all the shrinks and self-help gurus. On one hand, I agree with them–if you don’t like something about yourself, you probably shouldn’t refer to yourself with that nickname. Like nerds calling themselves nerds (I am a nerd at times too but my knowledge is a good thing.) (Only a nerd would think so…)
But, in all honesty, I’m also comfortable calling myself Fat Girl. On a superficial level, it doesn’t bother me. I actually find it somewhat funny. So when I sat down and started thinking about the history of how I got here, how I came to see myself as fat (for the record, I am always corrected by friends when I say I’m fat. None of them agree with me–since I’m not busting-out-of-my-jeans obese, I guess they don’t think I’m fat. Maybe they should compare my BMI with the insurance charts–they’d probably wonder how I’m still living, in that case), I came to a startling realization:
I created the F word–fat–in reference to myself. Meaning that in all my reflection on childhood and growing up, no one ever called me fat (that I remember). I decided that myself.
There is no indelible moment when someone called me fattie or fatso that scarred my subconscious. We reserved that nickname for B.C., the kid in town who always smelled of his mom’s bait shop and dirty clothes. B.C. was round, and for some reason, his mom always put him in horizontally striped shirts–not a good combination. I wasn’t round (and didn’t have Garanimals with stripes), I was just big. Not in a giant, overactive glandular kind of way, either. I don’t stand out in any of my elementary school photos like Shaq (I’m trying to find one, use your imagination). When my Playskool Plastic kKtchen girlfriends were frying imaginary eggs for their pretend husbands in kindergarten wearing size 2 elastic pants, I was in the 6X pants–but no one noticed. When we got our uniforms for Jr. High volleyball, I could never get anything lower than 13 since that’s where the Large tops started. I couldn’t borrow a pair of shorts if I forgot them and I wondered why the girls in A and B cups even bothered to snap on that medieval torture device known as a bra if they didn’t need a C cup to corral their “girls.”
Never did any of those times produce discussions about my weight. It was more my observations of myself in comparison to them that started me along the mental path of thinking I wasn’t “normal” like them. When we shopped for homecoming dresses, I knew better than to even turn my head toward the Juniors section. I started in Misses and occasionally ended up in Women’s. When money was tight and we borrowed from family friends whose daughters had graduated five or more years ahead of us, there was only one girl I could borrow from–my sister had her pick of racks of hand-me-downs, but I had to fall in love with the 1978 powder blue fashion sensation covered in crocheted lace or stay home. (and I hate all forms of blue. Especially powder blue). My girlfriends showed up at the pool in a bikini, I had two one-pieces to choose from. (I actually did wear a bikini once. I was four. Mom has a photo to prove it, but I wonder if the back wasn’t held together with duct tape. My memory fades after so long…)
So how did I get “fat”? I remember pictures of myself as a kid: feeding our pet goat, standing in front of dad’s Volkswagen ‘Thing’ with all my cousins, standing next to my cousin Casey and Mickey Mouse in Disneyland and I don’t look –fat–. I look strong and healthy and like I should have been born into a farming family (I was one generation too late). I don’t have the rolls I have today, but I do have the chub rub that I’ve never been without. There’s no bra overhang in those photos, but I am bigger than my oldest male cousin who played football. (I’m the oldest of this generation of kids; he’s three years younger than me). In team photos, J.B. is bigger than me (but my heinous home perm is the ugliest thing going).
I think what I’m searching for is that very first moment someone called me ‘fat’ so that I have a crutch to fall back on, a place to lay blame for my feeling as though my body has kept me from getting involved in life in a more assertive way. My weight doesn’t stop me from doing anything (except sky-diving and bungee-jumping, which I fully intend to do before I kick the bucket) but it does keep me more on the sidelines than the real game. I’m content being quiet, because when I’m in the spotlight, I get nervous about what people think.
It’s a very odd nervousness, too. Like I think people can’t see past my size 16 ass to realize that I’ve got solid knowledge and that I”m a really great person. I don’t ever judge the abilities and knowledge of other people based on their weight–so why do I constantly second-guess my own self on criteria I don’t use for others? Makes no sense. I know there are shallow, self-centered people who like to think they’re better than the fat girl because they’re skinny, but most of the time they’re just genetically gifted in the body and not the brain. If you can’t see past a person’s size to the heart of the matter, then no amount of knowledge you possess is valuable.
I think there’s more to the advent of the F word–in relationship to me–than I’ve said, but I’m going to be thinking more about it now that that train of thought has left the station (toot toot!). In the meantime…I have a date with the Wii. He better go easy on me today–he gave me sore thighs yesterday (if only that were as dirty as it sounded….).