I am fat. I am aware of this. I’m not a “person of size.” I’m not pleasantly plump. I’m not a Big Beautiful Woman and I don’t want the weirdness that goes with the BBW label. I don’t need to be told I’m just big boned, or I have a pretty face, or good hair, or whatever. I’m fat. It’s okay to say it. It’s not a bad word. It’s a fact. I wear plus size clothes and I have rolls and bulges and a double chin. My thighs rub together, my arms are flappity and my feet are wide. I’ve got a lot of body and I don’t hate myself. I’m fat and I’m happy.
I’ve always been big – I was 5’ 8” by the time I was 13, wore a size 8 shoe, and a 10 or 12 in clothes. I’ve always had that lower belly pouch and wide hips and big breasts and a bunch of junk in the trunk. My awkward teenage years were more traumatic because of my height in a family of women who don’t even hit 5 feet than my expanding pant size. And the giant glasses. And almost parallel to the floor buck teeth and subsequent orthodontics. And trying to figure out how to hide my boobs from creepy old dudes. (Still an issue.) Did I wish I was thin? Some, yeah, but I also wished I could marry Scott Bakula.
So, when I was in the middle of pregnancy and had finally gotten to the point where I had to put away all of my regular clothes and exist solely in Target and H&M’s approximation of semi-attractive maternity clothes, I convinced myself that a few short weeks after giving birth would find me sliding my skinny jeans back on and wearing all those cute tiny tops and adorable dresses that I lived in before I got knocked up. Never mind that there was an entire month where I ate nothing but candy. Never mind that my only weird pregnancy cravings was the giant soft pretzels covered in butter and salt. Never mind reality. Continue reading