I just had another one of those "where the hell do I live?!?" moments - I had to ask a woman to stop peeing on the ground at the bottom of the steps at my place of work. I was even polite to begin with, but then (sigh, yes, mid-stream), she told me it was my own fault for not letting her into my building to defile one of our lovely washrooms. Of course, she was not that articulate, this is much more accurate: "Ipeeoutdoors, you donletme in. Fuck you bitch!" The fuck you part is always very clear. Again I say onto you, sigh.
In other news, I was starting to feel the slight pull toward sheer panic earlier today, because of the things I don't know for school. But a little pep talk from my man, and a block of four serious hours of study later, and I feel way better about things. Can't panic. Not yet anyway. Heh.
I forgot to bring my copy of the idiots guide today, so I'm going to post an essay that I wrote about a year ago, and though it's a serious piece, don't think that I'm sad. This is probably my proudest thing, this essay, so I didn't want it to disappear in the vacuum that is the world wide web. Before I post it however, some good things - I have a choir. We had a rehearsal on Monday, and my god, these people! I'm so proud and happy....I forget about school and work and people pissing on steps. This choir makes me burst with pleasure (in the non-perv way, ya perv). We began working on a Zepplin tune this week. Yeah, you heard me.
I got lots of solid work done today. I got many sweet kisses.
And now, the essay......
If you are looking for a heartwarming story of a fat girl who came into her own, and has the happy ending - finding the man, losing the weight and somewhere along the line learns some valuable life lessons: stop reading. This story is not for you. I learned a large (pardon the pun) part of my life lessons young, the hard way, where all hits were below the belt.
I have always been fat. In varying degrees, fat has always found me. I joke that the only time I was thin was the day I was born, and I got over that pretty quickly. I have done the diets, eaten the blessed soup three meals a day. I have almost accepted a lifetime of cautionary tales, suggestions, helpful advice, dieting tips, exercise regimens and self help books. Maybe the problem is my self esteem, a fear of failure or abandonment, or some other psychological failing attributed to being overweight. Maybe, just maybe, there is no one or no person to blame – maybe I just like food.
I used to fantasize about living in the “olden times”. The time when the only junk food available was an orange in your Christmas stocking and maple syrup from the tree in the yard. You ate what was put in front of you, because that was the only option. Now, as an adult, I know that I would have stuck my head straight under that maple spout, right in the tree, and gotten fat anyhow. There is a kind of relief that comes with knowing, no matter what the circumstances, I would have ended up the way I am.
So I guess the big question is this; is there really anything wrong with me? I have a good life. I work too much, I have money, a multitude of friends and family who love me. I’m interested and interesting and creative. I’m smart. I can read a book and understand it’s meaning without anyone explaining it to me. I can watch a movie and laugh out loud at the jokes, even the heavily disguised ones. I was lucky enough to be born Canadian, which comes with global respect and an almost complete lack of war and need. Yes, I was seriously mocked as a child. Yes, I have horrible memories – I can never think of Inspector Gadget with fondness as that was a name that followed me around for years (remember how Inspector Gadget could pull a button and his jacket would puff up so he could float away? That’s how fat I was. I never once floated away). I’ve had people I once respected tell me I’m ugly, or worse, tell me I would be pretty if I only lost some weight. I had a boyfriend once wish that I was “hotter”, and the sad ending to that tale is that I did not dump his sorry ass, I cried, pretended like it didn’t matter, and stayed with him for another two years. This is the burden of the young fat girl. Staying with, staying sad because it’s better than being alone.
Of course since all of this, I have learned that the people who make fun, the people who call names, they do this because there is something missing in their own lives. It’s not really their fault, and I’ll bet that every person who called me Inspector Gadget would feel terrible about it now, if they even remembered. It’s big to me, in my head, because it happened to me. Children have no idea the lifetimes of hurt they caused, until it is far too late, and the idea is stuck in your head forever. I don’t blame those people anymore. I also learned that it is not my parents fault (and it’s not your parent’s fault either, unless they were cruel or abusive). Our parents, they all did the best that they could, all the while trying to be an adult and get past the neurosis that THEIR parents handed down to them. There was no turning point, no “a-ha!” moment. I just stopped being mad, stopped being hurt and stopped holding onto blame, and you’ll notice, I did not lose the weight. I guess the realization that we’ve all had a hard time somewhere along the road, the knowledge that everyone has a terrible story, something holding them back, makes me feel sorry and strong, all at the same time. Being human is hard.
I was convinced for a long time (because, man, it’s been a long time) that I would never meet anyone and I would eventually die alone, only to have my evil cat do his best to devour my corpse. But if you think about it, if I think about it, that’s kind of silly isn’t it? See, as mentioned earlier, I’ve got a lot of good things going for me, and if my belly is going to get in the way of love, my fat ass is going to prevent any and all future happiness, then I’m meeting the wrong kind of man. Of course I will meet someone. He probably won’t be prince charming, but who are we kidding, I’m certainly not Cinderella. I used to think “who could possibly want me” with the cellulite, rolls and penchant for salty things. Now I think, “what is wrong with those fools who don’t want me?” Fat is a word, a dirty word. It is not me.
I used to get jealous of the girls who lost weight, my sister, my best friend. Now though, now I can be content to be happy for them. They are not better than me because they lost weight – but maybe they are better for being good to themselves. I used to feel strange about eating in front of certain people, cause we all know, people are a bunch of judgers, and most people are probably smart enough to figure out that I like food, just from looking.
My most recent lesson is that thin does not equal happy. One of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, thin and married. Not happy. It was quite a shock. Another lesson learned is that men like me anyway, regardless of my rolls. Some say it’s the confidence (I gave up caring a while ago, and I guess it shows), some say it’s the laughs. May I suggest that it’s the above, plus the boobs?
I am not writing this to tell you my life story (though it certainly seems that way right now). This began as a story, I wanted to write some fiction for you, that revolved around someone very much like myself who ended up happy, even without the man, and without losing the weight. I hate those stories that start with an unhappy fat girl who emerges a (thin) butterfly who didn’t know her own power until she was tested, dieted and cosseted. And what I have come to is, I don’t have any fiction to tell you. I am happy, without the man, without losing the weight. Weird, huh?