Fat Girl Problems

I am a fat girl.

No, don't try to soothe my ego. I know what I am. American society has beheld my size twelve derriere and dubbed me ‘fat’ because I don't fit into the size four to size six range of acceptability. And, like a good American citizen, I roll over and submit to my fate. No matter that I work out every day. No matter that I attempt to be careful to eat nutritious foods. No matter that I enhance my diet with vitamins and supplements to maintain and boost my health. No matter that I schedule and keep annual physical check-up exams. No matter at all.

I won't lie and say that I couldn't stand to lose some unwanted fat baggage. I won't lie and say that I always make healthy food choices. I won't lie and say that it is Krispy Kreme’s fault that I am addicted to doughnuts. I also won't lie and say that there's not a serious double standard in this country when it comes to societal concepts of beauty versus personal levels of self-worth and self-esteem. And, I will most definitely not lie and say that most of these types of advertising are aimed at young girls and women. Thank you, marketing executives and fashion gurus, for creating a social dilemma for the collective that we are ever hard-pressed to solve.

Some may argue that staying thin boils down to self-discipline and hard work. People who say this are typically skinny already and tend to take being thin for granted. They're the ones who will never agonize about gaining an ounce as they cry through a pint of ice cream after that nightmare break-up (or whatever else may have driven them to indulge). They are the ones who love shopping because they look good in the clothes that they try on. They will never understand what it's like to stare in disbelief at the reflection in the dressing room mirror and plunge into a depressed funk because that tiny muffin top has somehow burgeoned into a bag of bagels. They're the ones who just don't get it, and never will. I should know. I used to be one of them. My, how times have changed. And, let me tell you, in this case, the grass is absolutely not greener on the other side.

The reasons people feel socially unacceptable vary. However, the amount of pressure to conform to society’s ideal of beauty is relentless and comes at us from every direction. Television, radio and internet advertisements tell us that to be acceptable, we must be thin, we must have glossy manageable hair, we must have flawless skin, we must have pearly white teeth and above all we must wear the latest fashions and own the newest gadgets. And, when we do not, or cannot, conform to these ideals, there are a myriad of people just waiting to rip us apart from the scalp on down. Seriously, how can anyone bear to poke their heads out of their front (or even back) doors under that amount of scrutiny? Yet, we must, and we do, and we endure the best we can, usually by making out with a box of cupcakes. It's a vicious, never-ending cycle.

Whatever happened to encouraging people to appreciate and love themselves “as-is”? Was there an announcement that the food and fitness corporations and the fashion police have declared martial law? If there was, I must've missed it. How is it then that we have permitted them to gain such powerful control over the degree of our self-worth? Is it because we've allowed ourselves to be duped into thinking that there's only one type of beauty? Are we not responsible for developing the confidence and self-esteem needed to rise above the frivolous and shallow expectations of public approval? In fairness, we cannot wholly accuse others for our own part in feeling obligated to live up to pop culture’s standards.

You kind of have to wonder; are we just more comfortable pointing a finger of fault at companies who're trying to sell their products so they can keep their workers employed? Don't we share some of the blame? I mean, aren't we the ones buying, and therefore creating a demand for, these products? Uh, yeah. And, we're the ones who must bear the burden of how we feel about our reflection in the mirror. See, those skinny people aren't altogether wrong.

For many (not all), a little healthy eating and some regular exercise would go a long way. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not recommending this as a means to lose weight to conform, the exact opposite, in fact. I'm a firm believer in working toward getting what you want. If what you want is a solid sense of self-worth, the only one who can truly provide that for you is you. You see, several years ago, because of a health condition and some poor medication choices by my doctors, I ended up gaining about sixty pounds in about ten months’ time. I went from being a blissfully ignorant skinny girl to being amply huggable. I became depressed, and found myself plummeting into a shame spiral. Finally, I realized that in order to reverse the situation, I'd have to be the one to make the effort.

About two years ago (with a small recent break) I began working out regularly. I hate exercising. Hate it with. a. passion! But, I love feeling like I am doing something good for myself. I like the way my energy remains stable throughout the day. Unfortunately, exercise alone wasn’t doing the trick, as I'm also a big fan of eating. I love chocolate, pretty much any kind of junk food, actually. But, I also love grapes, and green beans and watermelon and apple slices. Making the switch from eating junk food regularly and veggies or fruits sporadically to eating veggies and fruits regularly and junk food sporadically has been a sacrifice. Again, though, the feeling that I am doing something to improve the situation has made the difference.

Now, you may be thinking ‘sure, after all of that she’s probably skinny again’. Hate to burst your bubble. While I AM more toned and firm, even after all of this time, I have yet to dip below a size twelve. And, if you think the effort is wasted, you wouldn’t be alone. That shame spiral is ever present and waiting with open arms to receive me.

The point I’m trying to make is this; if we, as women (and men) want to rise above the influence of popular culture and feel comfortable being who we are in the body we have right now, we must take a long look into that dreaded mirror and make a decision. We have to decide that those wrinkles are our wisdom manifesting. We have to decide that curly hair is just as desirable as straight hair (or vice versa). We have to decide that the world will not end if our teeth are not three shades brighter. We have to decide to accept ourselves for who we are today, then embrace it and love ourselves in spite of what anyone else may attempt to force us to believe. And then, we have to pass those lessons along to the future generations. Only in working, together, toward what we want – a solid sense of self-worth -and fighting our way through the ever-changing fads can we ever hope to conquer the self-defeating morals our society would have us bow to. Fat girls, unite!

Musings Of An Un-Math-letic Mind

I saw a T-shirt the other day. It said, “Dear Math, I am not a therapist. Solve your own problems”. That sentiment accurately sums up my feelings about math in general.

I have never been a fan of math. I am a lover of words, of the creative and artistic venue of writing. While some may argue that you can be creative and artistic with numbers, I really don’t care to hear the argument.

            Personally, I don’t see a need in my life for anything past basic math skills. I will never use algebra to balance my checkbook when simple addition, subtraction, multiplication and division will suffice. I don’t understand why it’s necessary for me to have to solve equations like “x+3-1=11” only to find that it would be just as easy to say 9+2=11. Seriously. Why all the cloak and dagger?

            Then there are fractions. OK, I concede that I use fractions in my daily life. I use half-cups and quarter-cups when baking scrumptious cookies or cakes. These fractions are useful to me.  Anything above and beyond that … not so much. I don’t see why the capability to divide or multiply complex fractions is necessary in my life. Why make things harder than they really need to be?

            My biggest peeve, however, are the word problems. Word problems are seductive. They offer a problem in such a way that entices me to pay attention. They offer a plot and a reason to be invested in the problem. Just to illustrate what I mean, here is a perfect example:

Billy has five shiny, red apples. Billy goes to a party and sees two pretty girls. One has blonde hair. One has brown hair. He gives half of his apples to the pretty blonde-haired girl. He then gives half of what he has left to the pretty brown-haired girl. How many apples does Billy have left?

I was with Billy right up until I needed to figure out how many apples he had left. It’s not that I can’t figure out how many apples he now has. It’s because I don’t care!

As I said, I am a lover of words. I am more interested in whether or not Billy had a thing for either of the girls, or in knowing if either little girl had a crush on Billy, too. Or in discovering if the little brown-haired girl was ticked when she found out that the little blonde-haired girl got more of Billy’s apples than she did. Did a cat-fight ensue? Did either girl ever give Billy their number or did he impart of his apples in vain?

For these very reasons, word problems are the cruelest joke math teachers can play on a creative mind. I do not see these words in lines of logic. I do not read them in a linear manner. My writer’s brain is trained to “read between the lines”, to see the drama that is not at first apparent. I feel the uncertainty and angst Billy is feeling when he approaches each little girl. I perceive his concern that his gift, and therefore he, may be rejected. I am invested in how the story will unfold. And then, SMACK! I’m expected to draw a solid conclusion based on the facts given. I am doomed to never know the answers to my many questions. So cruel!

It’s dreadful that my precious and beloved letters are re-purposed as “variables” in the math world. However offensive this may be to me, I can accept this as a necessary thing. Word problems, though, are nothing short of a travesty, an unforgivable affront to the literary-minded. Therefore, it is my firm opinion that word problems should be buried, sequestered deep in the recesses of abandoned quarries, like the bones of the plague-riddled dead in the catacombs of France and Italy. They should be laid to rest and never disturbed again.

This may seem harsh to all the math lovers out there. I do not begrudge you your love of numbers. Have at it, by all means. But, please, the next time a person like me says they “hate math” or that they “do not ‘get’ math”, remember what you have just read. Have some sympathy for the “un-math-letic” masses, for we are many. Oh, and keep your word problems to yourself.

Tweet Nothings

I am a social network addict. I’m not even kidding. And, I’m pretty sure that I’m not alone in this. I didn’t even realize that I have a problem until about three months ago. I had just returned home with two rented movies and I was all proud of myself because I’d never used one of those kiosk thingies before. As my husband slipped the movie into the player and readied it for our viewing pleasure, he turned to me and said, “You ready?”

“Just one sec,” was my reply, as I hastily tweeted that I was ‘no longer a Redbox virgin’. Considering that I’d wanted to see this movie in the theater and was now putting the start on hold, my husband logically asked me what I had to do that was so important. I told him. The look on his face was the epitome of the word ‘baffled’. “Seriously? You really needed to tweet that?” he asked. “Why on Earth would anyone care about that?” Um, ouch! But, his comment got me thinking. Was I missing something by having my nose buried in a laptop screen every day?

A couple of weeks later, I decided to go cold turkey. No social networks for a week. No Twitter. No Facebook. No GooglePlus. No MySpace. Ok, well, I don’t really do MySpace anymore. Who does really? (Oh, c’mon, be honest!) So, that one wasn’t a sacrifice. But, still. I was confident that it would be no big deal. Plus, I wanted to see how the “unplugged” version of my life was different from the “plugged in” version. How would removing myself from social media affect me?

The plan was to abstain from all social media from Monday morning until the following Sunday night. I asked my husband to change my account passwords and issued strict instructions not to divulge them to me until the said time. Of course, my pragmatic, IT-manager husband pointed out that all I needed to do to recover them was to click the little ‘Did you forget your password?’ link under the account information boxes (thanks, smart aleck). I told him I wanted no easy access to them, at which point he rolled his eyes (he does this a lot) and said, “Yeah, OK.” Humph! It was clear that his faith in my ability to resist this temptation would have made a grain of sand look like a planet. Oh, it was on like Donkey Kong. I cut my eyes at him, daring him to say something more. He simply shook his head and shrugged. With that, the challenge began.

Time flew by, or so it seemed. Immediately I noticed how much easier it was to focus on my school work (yes, I know I shouldn’t have social networks up during school time). A million times easier, in fact. And that left me time for other things. Laundry was folded and put away. Floors were swept and mopped. The bathroom glistened with freshly cleaned porcelain. The counters and kitchen table were cleared of clutter. Appliances were wiped down. Dishes got done directly after the consumption of a hearty, home-cooked meal. Oh, yeah, I cooked! I even called my mother. Things seemed to be going smoothly, and everything was falling into place. It felt great to show my husband that I could indeed do this and to discover that it wasn’t so difficult after all. Oh, the joy, the elation…the gloating rights! I felt compelled to share my celebratory mood with (and brag to) the world. After all, I’d made it, hadn’t I? I’d resisted the temptation for a whole … six hours?! Noooooooo!

It was then that the word ‘addict’ popped into my head, followed immediately by the thought that, Oh eM Gee this week is going to kill me, and then I’ll be dead and my husband will smugly roll his eyes at my coffin. And, oh crap, who would update my status or tweet about my untimely demise?! He wouldn’t, that’s for sure. Unacceptable. My only option was to grit my teeth and wade through the withdrawal.

You know that moment, hours or days after an argument, in which the perfect retort appears in your head and you wish you had a time machine to go back and deliver it, but instead, must live with the fact that this scathing, clever reply is impotent and useless now? Yeah. Now, apply that to all of the clever, cool things that pop into your brain that you update your status with, or tweet for all to see. That was my week. I literally had status updates and tweets flying through my brain and my fingers itched to click on that “forgot password?” link just so I could share these pointless little gems with my adoring (let me have my fantasy people!) public. Next, imagine the loss of all the validation that accompanies said clever, cool remarks from both friends and strangers and sometimes even your mom. I literally had the best. Week. Ever! And, no one would get to LOL with me over something stupid I had done. No one would hash tag me a #highfive for accomplishments I’d achieved. No one would know a thing about the awesomeness of my week. Well, except for my husband…and my mom and dad…and my friends. You know, the people I actually speak to, the people that really matter.

I will confess. I didn’t make it to my self-imposed deadline. I caved around noon on Saturday, earning myself another eye roll from the husband. An addict I remain (yes, I have Twitter up behind this as I write), but I learned two valuable lessons: One, I can survive without social networks, I just don’t want to. And two, no amount of accolades or attention from strangers will ever replace the comfortable and reliable dysfunction of family and friends.

#TheEnd