You do know that photographs in fashion mags are heavily altered before publication, right? I always assume that this is common knowledge, but I wasn’t aware of how heavily modified some images are until I checked out some before and after comparisons (click on ‘portfolio’). Looking at those images was quite eye opening, as I suddenly realized that all of the porcelain dolls I see on magazine covers have skin that’s actually a lot like mine, with small blemishes and natural imperfections. And that even “perfect” actresses and models are altered before being placed in the public eye.

I find that pretty depressing, myself. We constantly rail on about the unrealistic beauty standard promoted by the fashion industry, but it’s kind of a shock to be actually confronted with it. Of course, I knew that image manipulation happens, but I don’t think I realized the extent of such manipulation. It certainly didn’t occur to me that even for the perfect, there is no perfection, thanks to this crazy society we live in.

Yesterday, this article was published in the Telegraph, and the fatosphere started responding, along with feminist bloggers. For those of you who don’t feel inclined to read the article, the short version is that many fashion magazines are starting to alter images of models and actresses to make them seem less thin. And I stress “less thin,” although the Telegraph opted for “fatter,” because these women aren’t fat, they are still thin. Very, very thin.

My response to the article was mixed. On the one hand, I thought it was interesting that magazines are actually altering images to make their subjects look larger, although still nowhere close to real women. On the other hand, it depressed me to think that these magazines have chosen to cover up the real consequences of dangerous thinness, probably in response to rising public outcry about the issue, and to make them seem more attractive.

As Ann says in the post at Feministing, if you want pictures of healthy models, hire healthy models, rather than modifying photographs of unhealthy models to make them look healthier. This seems pretty straightforward to me. She also made a very good point when she discussed the fact that extremely thin women don’t actually look that attractive, what with tiny breasts and bottoms, and jutting bones, so altering their images encourages people to pursue a thin look without revealing the physical cost.

Image manipulation of this type is simply a clear, blatant, lie. It conceals an important reality: the fact that anoretics have sallow, nasty skin, ashy hair, jutting bones, and a variety of other grotesque symptoms. The reality is that if you want to be as thin as the people in magazines, you’re going to look awful, but you might not realize that, since the truth is concealed from you.

The fashion industry is brutal for people on the inside, and pretty awful for those of us on the outside who are still influenced by it. I’m not sure what kind of message photoshopping to add flesh might be sending, but I don’t think it’s good, and I would love to see even one fashion magazine use honest, unaltered images straight from the camera. Just for once, it would be nice to see the truth, rather than an elaborately constructed fiction.

There seems to be growing awareness that maybe being extremely thin is dangerous, and some action is even being taken, like banning anorexic fashion models from fashion shows. Yet, at the same time, I see casual references to the “obesity epidemic” everywhere I look. I wonder if anyone’s left in the middle anymore, when a size eight is fat, all the models are all under size zero, and even they aren’t perfect enough for the exacting standards of the fashion industry.

Sometimes, my posts about irritation with modern society just write themselves, and this was definitely the case when I encountered this Newsweek article about a children’s book explaining plastic surgery. It’s called “My Beautiful Mommy,” and it kind of makes me want to vomit.

Ostensibly, the book is designed to be marketed to mothers who are considering plastic surgery and want to be able to explain what’s happening to their young children. I get that. I can imagine it would be weird when your parents undergo medical procedures and don’t explain it, and it can be scary, so being able to talk about it would probably be really beneficial for young children, taking the fear of the unknown out of the equation.

But has plastic surgery for mothers become so commonplace that we need a children’s book to explain it? The outrageometer says yes, because obviously mothers have gross, disgusting, nasty sagging tummies and breasts, and no one will ever love them unless they resort to dangerous invasive surgical procedures to make them smooth, firm, and tight again.

I’ve noticed that mothers seem to be in for it more and more these days. First, they’re expected to lose their baby weight post haste, because baby weight makes you FAT and no one wants to look at fat people, even if they did just grow a human being. And now, apparently, mothers are supposed to surgically correct the somewhat inevitable results of pregnancy, thereby even further disguising the evidence that they gave birth to children.

Now, I don’t have children, so maybe I’m missing something here, but I feel like parenthood is a source of pride and personal identity for many people. So why would you want to conceal the fact that you are a parent? And why would you want a partner who erases all evidence of having born children, despite the fact that the children are (presumably) still in your lives?

A friend of mine once told me that he always thinks that women who haven’t had children look incomplete or unfinished somehow. He didn’t mean it in an insulting way (really), and he made a valid point; hormonal changes during pregnancy do change your body in certain ways, and some of those changes endure. From an evolutionary standpoint, it would make sense to be attracted to women who exhibit characteristics associated with pregnancy, because it means that they are fertile, which makes it kind of doubly sad that mothers now apparently feel like they need to cover up the evidence when they have children.

I’m opposed to plastic surgery in general, except in the case of reconstructive surgery after serious injuries or accidents, or in the case of surgery to correct congenital birth defects which cause pain or extreme embarrassment, or hinder someone’s ability to live. By all means, fix cleft palates and give burn victims new skin, but why hack the bodies of healthy people to satisfy some insane beauty standard?

Not having been pregnant, I don’t know what it’s like to experience the physical and hormonal changes associated with pregnancy and its aftermath. And I can definitely understand a sense of frustration or unhappiness with one’s body after pregnancy, because it has undergone some major changes. But I feel like it’s something that people should ride out, rather than correcting surgically. I know lots of mothers with washboard abs and firm, high breasts who came by them naturally, illustrating that it is, in fact, possible to tone your body back into shape after pregnancy, if that’s what you want to do.

It makes me incredibly sad that our solution to the complex emotions which women experience after surgery is to sweep them under the rug, to hack their bodies apart so they look “normal again.” What kind of society do we live in?

There was a great article up yesterday on Jezebel, talking about the new trend of equating baby weight with fat. The article itself is delightfully witty and derisive, and a lot of the comments are pretty excellent too. I really like the person who said “I’m not fat, my fetus is!”

At the same time, the article made me really sad.

One of the things about not really following pop culture is that I tend to catch up cultural trends long after they are passed, and I wasn’t aware that the baby weight issue had gotten so, uhm, big. Basically, the article and the comments were discussing the celebrity trend of losing weight as quickly as possible after giving birth, to get back to pre-baby weight. Celebrities appear totally thin and “normal” within days of birth, thanks to pressure to be all skinny, all the time.

Because obviously your health is less important than your dress size.

I was really horrified to read this, because I had been under the impression that pregnancy was the last get of jail free card when it came to being fat or overweight, since most people understand that when you are incubating another human being, you are going to put on at least a little bit of weight. And sure, I hear some of my pregnant friends complaining about how much weight they are gaining, and stressing out about losing it, but most of them haven’t turned to anorexia as soon as the little blighter pops out to bring their weight down; instead they breastfeed, jog with their infants, and eat healthy diet, and the weight tends to go away naturally. And it’s not their major concern, it’s more one of the many overwhelming and intense things about pregnancy, when your body feels like it is slipping out of your control.

I’ve also noticed that celebrities tend to remain frighteningly thin when they are pregnant. In a Times article a few weeks about about the “baby bump” being the new “hot accessory” (and don’t get me started there), all the pictures were of fairly pregnant celebrities who were still rail thin. They looked…grotesque, honestly. Like those pictures of starving African children with hugely distended bellies and stick-like arms and legs. I remember thinking how sad it was that women feel the pressure to be thin even when they are pregnant, and that women are willing to risk their health and the health of the baby to cater to the idea that women should be thin all the time.

It’s also a major bummer, because celebrities have the power to turn public opinion around. I would love to see curvy, fat, happy, pregnant celebrities flaunting their stretch marks, because it would send a more realistic image to women. The fact of the matter is that when you are pregnant, you gain weight. Straight up. That’s how it works. And I think that you have more important things to worry about while pregnant than how big you’ve gotten. If celebrities weren’t afraid to be fat while pregnant, maybe pregnant women wouldn’t be beating themselves up for their temporary weight gain.

It’s rude to ask how much weight someone has gained at any point, and that includes pregnancy. It’s also rude to ask “when are you due” when you’re talking to someone you don’t know. And it’s just plain ludicrous to glorify thin pregnant women and to force newly post-partum women to drop those pounds, quickly quickly, you don’t want to slip out of the public eye so pass the baby to the nanny and lose that weight! Go! Go!

On Sunday night, I found myself loosely following Oscar results, not out of any major interest in which films/people won but because I was a bit bored. When Tilda Swinton won for her work on Michael Clayton, I stumbled across an interview with Tilda Swinton, which I was going to link to, but the content “mysteriously changed” between Sunday and now. I’ve really got to start taking screen captures.

The main thrust of the interview was discussing the fact that she gained weight for the Michael Clayton role, complete with a witty headline like “Swinton eats her way to glory” or some such crap. She of course expressed delight with being able to eat whatever she wanted (have you heard of intuitive eating, Tilda? It’s pretty awesome, mainly because you can…eat whatever you want), and she went into some of her reasons for gaining weight for the role.

I was most struck by a statement that she wanted the character to “look uncomfortable in her own skin.” Because, you know, obviously fat people are uncomfortable in their own skin. Because being fat is so awful and miserable, how could you not feel uncomfortable in your own skin? And she went on to say “I wanted her to have this sort of itchy feeling about her body so her clothes were always either too tight or her underwear was too tight but her clothes actually don’t fit.” Because we fatties are known for wearing clothing that doesn’t fit.

Maybe it’s hard to explain why her statements irritated me if you aren’t fat. But can you see how they might be kind of…off putting, at the very least? Perhaps she didn’t mean it to come across this way, but I was left with a very distinctive impression: fat people are uncomfortable in their own skin, and they wear ill-fitting clothing. Maybe Swinton didn’t say it, but the implication seemed to be that fat people don’t care about themselves, let themselves go…and perhaps even expect to be loathed by society.

The article emphasized scenes where the character exercises,  “striving for something she can’t have,” because of course the sight of a fat person exercising is pathetic and laughable. Which explains why when I’m out on my bike, other cyclists avert their gazes and laugh when I pass by. Oh, wait, they don’t, they nod and smile, recognizing a fellow human being. And fat people never get anywhere when they exercise, no matter what they might think. Nope, I can exercise every day and I’ll still be fat and unhealthy and gross, because of course being fat is, you know, totally awful. As for the morbidly obese, instead of the just fat, why, they shouldn’t even bother leaving the house, let alone exercising.

Every time an actress gains weight for a role, I feel obligated to go look at the before and after pictures, since the media makes such a big fuss of it.  Take Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones, looking in my opinion perfectly normal, although a bit puffy around the edges, like someone who gained weight too rapidly and in a dangerous way. After that film? Frighteningly thin. The publicity photos I could track down of Swinton in the film didn’t appear fat; in fact, she looked a bit thin to me.

Swinton may be “ferociously intellectual,” as one review said, but it sounds to me like she’s just as bigoted as the rest of the Hollywood community. Bummer.

“She looks just like a big slab of bacon,” one of them was saying as I took out the garbage on my way into town to pay the rent, and a gale of deep throated male laughter arose, the kind of laughter that makes me nervous. I nodded genially as I dropped the recycling in, and the Neighbor With the Chainsaw nodded back, a bit sheepishly, as I took out the garbage. I hope he hasn’t been reading my blog, I thought, wondering what the expression was about and then shrugging my shoulders and heading off down the alley.

I had bigger fish to fry, like my rage over Saturday’s mail, and I was a fair way down the alley when I heard the next comment in the conversation, pitched specifically for my ears, I’m sure.

“You oughta go hoggin‘,” one of them says, and a gale of ugly laughter rose up as I realized that they were talking about me. The jokes, the ugly laughter, were about the passive aggressive neighbor who nods genially when she takes out the garbage and writes blog entries about chainsaw usage. Only they don’t know that I write passive aggressive entries about chainsaw usage, all they know is that I’m a little weird but generally friendly. Oh, and I’m fat. I did the only rational thing I could do in the circumstances, which was to square my shoulders and keep walking as if I hadn’t heard.

They must eat some moldy-ass bacon, I thought, looking down at my fuzzy green zip-up hoodie.

I’ve been thinking about my place in the fat activist world lately. I was actually going to write an entry today about how I am hesitant to classify myself as a fat activist because of the implied baggage which comes with that, and that I prefer to think of myself as advocating for health at any size, and then as I was walking down the street thinking about how someone had just compared me to a piece of bacon, I realized that this is unacceptable. I cannot keep walking as if I haven’t heard, and I can’t say I advocate for health at any size (although I do), when I really advocate for acceptance, and for treating people like human beings. To restrict myself to a health at any size view is to say that some fat people shouldn’t be treated like people, to suggest that it’s ok to go be mean to those other unhealthy fat people.

I wonder why they chose bacon. I think of bacon as a delicious, flavorful animal product which is filled with goodness. To paraphrase Mark Twain, to compare me to a pig is a credit to me and an insult to the pig. But I think really that guy was just saying I’m a pig as in fatty. Lardo. Porky. A big ole fat slab of bacon ripe for abuse.

And no one should be treated like that, healthy or not. We don’t shout at lepers anymore, so why the fuck is it acceptable to call someone walking down the street a slab of bacon? The only appropriate response to that situation is anger, whether or not the person is healthy. And that is why I am a fat activist, because you don’t need to think that fat is beautiful (I don’t always think so), and you don’t need to think that fat is right (it’s not, for everyone), and you don’t even need to think that fat is healthy (although it is, for some), but you do need to think that fat people are human beings. And fat people have emotions and feelings, and our weight is not a good excuse to insult is, to belittle us, to refuse to hire us, to deny health insurance to us, to treat us like second class citizens.

I personally think that protruding tumors are gross, but you don’t see me heckling stage IV cancer patients. I’m also not a big fan of dreadlocks on white people, but I don’t harass hippies when they walk down the street. Because these people are human beings. Because what they do with their bodies is not my business. Because I don’t know what they might be struggling with, the complex emotions and permutations that have gone into their physical presentations. I listened to an interview with several fat activists yesterday in which the interviewer kept saying “you’re saying you think fat people deserve acceptance,” in this horribly skeptical and horrified way, like the activist was saying “I think we should kill all old people,” and the activist just kept saying, simply, “yes. I do.”

On the way home, I stopped by Purity and picked up a Cappuccino It’s-It. I drew out my consumption of my favourite ice cream treat until I was walking down the alley on my way home, and I happened to hit the last bite right as I passed the now shrunken group. As I delicately picked it up and bit down, I looked right into their eyes and smiled.

“Those spics,” one of them was saying, “they need to come into the country like anyone else.” As he was talking, he turned, and realized I was passing, and there was a moment of awkward silence.

Chinga tu madre, cabron, I thought. Chinga tu madre. And I dropped the It’s-It wrapper on top of the garbage and went inside to make myself some coconut lemongrass soup with brown rice.

So, the big news of the day yesterday was that the fatosphere made it into the New York Times. Not only that, but the article linked to a bunch of awesome fat acceptance blogs, so they all got deluged promptly with traffic (and trolls, of course). At any rate, the article is well worth reading, because I happen to think that it marks a pretty landmark moment in the fat acceptance movement. Or maybe not. In this easy come easy go world of news, maybe everyone will have forgotten the message by Thursday.

Fat people. In the Times. Happy fat people. As in, people who are fat, and like their bodies. Not an article about weight loss surgery, or anorexia, or misery with being fat. A positive article all about fat. It’s pretty much the coolest thing since sliced bread. Well, maybe not since sliced bread, but you get the picture.

It has been really interesting to read the reaction among fat bloggers (as in bloggers who focus specially on size, rather than intermittently, like I do. Although they may be physically fat as well.) I think that a lot of people are incredibly excited, as well they should be, although most of the linked sites were forced to put up posts explaining their comments policy and the health at every size movement, because the trolls moved in quickly. Oh, how they moved in. In fact, the comments from the trolls and the responses are pretty amusing to read.

I loved that the article talked about some of the complex science going on around health and weight. I also loved the fact that the article was remarkably positive, including a lot of well structured quotes and having a generally upbeat message about fat blogging. Given that the Times is a pretty widely read paper, I would like to think that some fatties picked up the paper yesterday and saw a light at the end of the tunnel of hatred and rabid rhetoric, and that is pretty damn cool. Fat blogging has definitely exploded in the last year or so, and I think that fact that it’s in the Times is very telling, because it indicates that fat acceptance is starting to go mainstream.

I would like to live in a world where people are judged on the basis of who they are, rather than how they look, but I’m not sure how realistic that longing is. Until then, I’m glad to see that the fat acceptance movement is starting to hit the eyeballs of the rest of society, albeit with a lot of resistance, because it suggests that our thinking about fat, as a society, may be slowly changing. It may take awhile, and we may never quite there, but this is a big, fat step for mankind.

The Times even linked to an RSS feed of major fat acceptance blogs, which they regrettably called “obesity blogs.”  Getting link love from the Times is pretty much my wet dream, personally, so I extend hearty congratulations to all of the bloggers mentioned in the article, and I encourage you to go check out their sites (most of which I read on a regular basis), because they are excellent, informative, and perhaps…eye opening for those of you who aren’t quite ready to embrace fat acceptance in all its curvy glory.

One of the things that intrigues me about the way that people interact with fat people is the constant refrain of “oh, you’re not fat.” Not only is it patronizing, it’s an outright lie. And it’s idiotic, because fat people know that they are fat. Most fat people are not in denial; they are well aware of their weight, and pretending that they aren’t fat is actually really offensive. For fat people who embrace their weight and are confident in their bodies, hearing “oh, you’re not fat” is really just a slap in the face, and a denial of that person’s identity.

I’m not quite sure why it’s acceptable to say that fat people aren’t fat. My African American friends would be pretty pissed if I said “oh, you’re not black.” Especially when the same people who say “oh, you’re not fat” to your face are quite happy to talk about how fat you are behind your back. Or when they point to someone they see and say “man, that person is fat,” and you look at that person and think about how he or she weighs significantly less than you do.

My irritation with the passion for size denial demonstrated by otherwise intelligent people was recently piqued when I was on a search for a particular article of clothing. As I have stated elsewhere, I really try to support local businesses whenever possible, which is especially challenging when I need clothes because most stores here don’t carry stuff which fits me. I also really don’t like to interact with clerks since I am pathologically shy, so I kind of hide and skulk around the edges of stores unless I am forced to deal with a clerk.

At any rate, I went into a local store and one of the clerks immediately pounced on me to ask if I needed help. I said that I was looking for such and such a thing, and she immediately started parading me around the store to show me things.

I noticed two things:

1. Everything she was showing me was really overpriced, and way more than I wanted to pay.

2. Everything she was showing me was way too small.

Eventually I reluctantly picked a few things in the larger sizes off the rack for her to put in the dressing room, and then I wandered around the store on my own to see if I could find anything I liked. My shyness prevented me from just leaving and saying that nothing there was quite what I wanted, so I already felt guilty for wasting the clerk’s time as I quested in vain for something which would fit me and not empty my bank account. I happened to wander into the woeful plus sizes area of the store, and she immediately shouted:

“Oh, honey*, you don’t want to be in there, that’s the plus size clothing, it’s all way too big for you.”

“Actually,” I said, fixing her with an icy stare, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m fat. This is the section of the store that I should be in.” Yes, perhaps I was a little abrupt with her, but, damnit, she was being rude.

She glared back, huffed, and started talking with the other clerk while I picked out a few things and went into the dressing room.

Where I found that she had swapped the larger sizes I picked out with smaller sizes.

Do I need to explain why I find this offensive? And humiliating? And…stupid?

I tried on the plus sizes I had found, and discovered that they fit and looked good, although they were way too expensive. I also gamely attempted to try on one of the pieces which the clerk had swapped, and it very obviously didn’t fit, and since she was hovering outside, I said:

“Oh, I must have grabbed the medium by accident, could you please get an extra large, if there is one?”

And she came back…with a small.

So I left. I’ve had a history of problems with the staff of this store, and every time I try again to shop there, I am insulted. (Incidentally, Haddock, I have complained to the manager and store owners about the problem, to no avail.) Somehow, after that experience, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.

There’s a discussion on Shapely Prose about Marilyn’s Law, which states that “As an online discussion about fat women grows longer, the probability of a mention of Marilyn Monroe’s dress size approaches one.” Fat denial is ugly, my gentle readers, and it is also stupid, offensive, and just plain crazy. As an advocate for fat rights and a member of the Healthy At Any Size movement, interactions like the one above are easy for me to deal with, although irritating; fat people who are still struggling with their weight probably find them soul crushing.

Fatties aren’t sailing down the Nile, kids. We know we’re fat, and you all can stop pretending that we aren’t. Don’t tell your fat friends that they aren’t fat, since it makes you look stupid and blind. Not only that, but it implies that you don’t want to be associated with fat people, so you want to rationalize your fat friends out of a few sizes. If you don’t want to be friends with fat people, you’re a fucking idiot, and don’t try to rationalize your fat hatred.

*Don’t. Call. Me. Honey. Or sweetheart, sweetie, or any other derivative. It is a 100% guaranteed way to make me extraordinarily angry.

I had a strange experience the other night which I’ve been mulling over for a few days. I was out rocking my freshly cut hairs* and one of my new and most excellent bras when I ran into an assemblage of friends at Headlands, and we gathered to sit and talk about this and that, as people do. Somehow, the topic of donuts came up, and I extolled the two greatest donuts in the world: the donuts at Bob’s and the Beignets of Nicholas, which are not technically donuts but they are in the donut family, so I argue that they count. I also started musing on the possibility of making donuts in the next few days, because I haven’t made them in awhile and it might be fun.

“Those are really bad for you, you know,” someone said, looking directly at me while he said it.

“Er, yes,” I replied. “I am aware that donuts are not among the healthiest foods. However, I prefer to find excellent foods which I enjoy and eat them.”

“You really shouldn’t eat donuts,” he said, still obviously addressing me directly.

This is usually the moment in a conversation when someone realizes that they are making a mistake, and they should probably stop talking. In conversations with me, this moment is accompanied with a sudden tightening of the lip, and a change around my eyes. It’s a bit subtle, I grant, but most people notice.

“Because they are really bad for you. Donuts make you fat.”

“Yes,” I said, icily. “There are lots of foods out there that are bad for you. This is true.”

“Well,” he said. “I have a body. And I take care of it.” Unlike you, his subtext clearly said. Obviously you don’t take care of your body.

I was really torn, for a moment, about what to say. How does one respond to this? Do I make a scene, or do I try to defuse the situation, even though this is an issue which really bothers me?

“Well, I take care of mine by eating awesome food,” I said, finally, while the other people at the table began to look awkward, and he repeated his claims about “caring about his body.” Repeated them several times, actually, as I am apparently deaf as well as fat.

“But donuts are bad for you! They are filled with bad stuff!”

“You know, a lot of commercial food is filled with bad stuff,” I said. “I think that a lot of things are both bad and unhealthy. I think that moderate unhealthy food is not such a bad thing, as long as it’s good unhealthy food. I do not approve of consuming bad food of any sort, unhealthy or not.”

This thought is held by a lot of the world’s population, I would like to point out. It is only in America that we are simultaneously enthralled and terrorized by bad, unhealthy food, although we are trying to pass the sickness on to others. In other countries, people romp through rich cheeses and pate and other sinful delights without too much concern, because they know that great food is why we live. Great food is why I live. When I am paralyzed in bed in the morning, filled with uncertainty about whether or not I want to be alive, let alone wake up, I remember that there is good food in the world. I think of a particular moment, a flavor, an elusive instant, and I swing my feet out of bed and pull on a kimono and put the tea kettle on.

This was the first time in my life that someone has ever directly criticized my diet or lifestyle in a way which suggests that I am stupid, or that I should be ashamed of my weight. It’s also the only time anyone has criticized my diet, period, actually. I have eaten monstrous ice cream sundaes alongside people whom I know have a problem with fat, and they have not said a peep, because they understand that I am aware of the link between ice cream consumption and fat, and they trust me to make my own decisions. I mean, there was the drive by oinking, which I think was supposed to be humiliating, but it didn’t come across that way. This was someone, a friend, someone I respect, who was basically saying that the way I take care of my body is bad, implying that I don’t care of myself. Someone, incidentally, who does not eat a very good as in healthy or as in delicious diet.

Who went on, later, to order a large dessert which is probably way worse for you than donuts. And who said that he really liked pasta in cream sauce, and went on to list a bunch of other “bad” foods. Who, when I mentioned that I enjoy pasta in cream sauce as well, frowned.

I wouldn’t say that my primary emotion about this is shame. It’s sadness. For me and for this person, who apparently loathes my body so much that he seized on an opportunity to repeatedly slam my diet, because the above conversation is a bit redacted to remove redundancy, and it in no way conveys the agonizing circular conversation that we had. It made me sad that this person obviously has some kind of issue with the way I look that he doesn’t want to address, and it made me sad to live in a society where it’s ok to criticize me for expressing a fondness of donuts. Had he criticized me for liking black men, everyone at the table would have jumped on him. If he’d said that he didn’t approve of the homosexual lifestyle, someone would have said something. But apparently it’s ok to treat someone like shit “for their own good.” Because, obviously, I’m delusional and stupid, and I have no idea that eating foods loaded with fats and sugars will make me fat. They don’t teach you that in college, you know. Or in…life.

There are so many things I wished that I had said, now. I wished that I had said that I have actually read a lot about diet and nutrition, that I am intelligent, that I am aware that eating food makes you fat, because that’s how life works. I wished I had said that I have discussed this issue with my doctor, that she doesn’t think I eat an unhealthy diet. Or that I had said that my diet was actually way more healthy than his, with a larger focus on whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables, essential fatty acids. I wished I had said something, anything, rather than taking it with a forced smile and making a witty comment in an attempt to deflect it. Rather than saying nothing, which suggests that he was right.

I know that fat bashing is really the only politically correct bashing allowed these days, but I’m really getting tired of it. So, I have a newsflash for you, dear readers:

Fat people know that they are fat. They are not under the delusion that they are slim, delicate nymphs wandering in an enchanted forest with unicorns. They are also fully aware that you find them repulsive, and some of them are ashamed by that because they have been told to be, while others think that you are petty, sizeist hypocrites who surely have something better to do with your time. It is actually not helpful to tell fat people that their diets are making them fat, because they already know that. It is also not helpful to make disparaging comments about fat, or suggestions about their lifestyles. The reasons for being fat aren’t always hanging out there on the surface, and you may cause intense pain or personal offense by making obvious and stupid statements. So please, don’t. Because I know that all of you are smarter than this.

By the way, here’s a link to the Sixth Edition of the Big Fat Carnival. I suggest that you take the time to read it, because there’s a lot of really awesome material in there, and I am pleased to see that the Big Fat Carnival has been brought back to life.

*For those readers who are not familiar with this particular Northern California expression, I was “sporting my freshly cut hairs,” or even “wearing my freshly cut hairs with elan, pride, pleasure, and a hint of style.” One can be said to be “rocking” a number of things, from a difficult piano solo to an examination. It implies a superior, excellent, and admirable performance. I suspect that it is related to the phrase “rock out with your cock out,” since it also suggests a certain amount of self confidence, the sort of self assurance that would allow you to, well, rock out with your cock out. Assuming that you have one. I’ve always said “rock out with your rack out” when referring to ladies, but for some reason this has never caught on. I admit that there is a rhyming difficulty with “rock” and “rack” which one does not encounter with “rock” and “cock.”

It’s October, and we all know what that means. Pumpkins and candy and…women dressed up like hookers.

Manolo for the Big Girl had a post up today about luscious ladies dressing like skanks, along with a polite request not to do so. They argued it from the point that dressing up like a cheap hooker smacks of desperation, and we buxom dames need not sink that low. But I think there’s another point which could be reasonably argued as well, which is that dressing up like a skank is demeaning. It’s not empowering. It’s not sexy (at any size). It’s just sad.

My gentle readers know that I am not the rabid feminist type, champing at the bit to attack any perceived slight to the female gender, but I really think that dressing up like a slut is denigrating. There are a lot of things that bother me about it, living in the sexualized culture that we do, although Brendan might argue that it bothers me because we live in a culture where that kind of clothing has become charged. When I see women tarting themselves up in too-tight clothing with heavy makeup and teased hair, it fills me with abject sadness and pity.

This is not an issue of fat. I am well aware that many people in this culture claim to find anybody over a size six physically repulsive, and that many of these same people make humiliation of fat people a mission. If it was just an issue of fat, I would say that large ladies should live it up in tight clothes, pointing out to the rest of the world that we do exist, damnit, and a lot of us actually have really nice bodies. But I don’t think anyone should take the cheap route by dressing up as a hooker for Halloween because…well, because it’s cheap. And degrading. And sad.

One of my male friends dressed up as a “naughty nurse” last year, which was sort of funny in that he was making fun of the whole concept of dressing up like a hooker. The pictures are pretty priceless. But seeing a woman in the same costume raises a lot of issues for me, as it cheapens the nursing profession while also devaluing the wearer. Why would anyone do that to herself voluntarily?

We ladies have a lot to offer to society. Why not wear costumes which are actually empowering and cool, rather than just slapping on a pair of hot pants and calling it good? One year, I went as Queen Elizabeth I, which required an awesome costume with huge skirts and a tightly laced top, and hours of careful makeup and hairstyling. It was a lot of fun, and I got a lot of comments. In fact, while the sluts/skanks/hookers/naughty whatevers leaned against the wall looking petulant, the males at the party crowded around me to compliment me on my costume.

So, if it’s about attention, wear something awesome and over the top. Go as a Scrabble board, a Jenga set, a historical figure, a horse, something weird and eye-catching. Use some imagination. If it’s about empowerment, go as a strong historical figure like Joan of Arc, Elizabeth I, Susan B. Anthony, Alexander. Personally, I’m tempted to go as Napoleon. Or maybe Genghis Khan.

But please…ladies…don’t dress up as skanks this year.

For some reason, this story sprang to mind today, although it happened some time ago.

One evening, I was walking along Main Street when a very jacked up car filled with ruffians drove by. As they passed me, the windows went down and the men started shouting:

“Oink! Oink!”

They accompanied the calls with snarfling noises, which I believe were meant to bring the thought of pigs to mind. I actually looked over my shoulder to see if there was a cop behind me, when I realized that they were oinking at me.

Hrm, I thought, what was that about? Why would you “oink” at someone who isn’t a cop? Do I look like a cop? Am I wearing a Police Activities League shirt or something?

And then, I realized. They were oinking at me because they thought I was fat, because I was strolling down the street eating an ice cream cone and enjoying the last of the lingering daylight. They were, it occurred to me, trying to insult me, or perhaps to shame me. Unfortunately for them, “fat” is not a pejorative word to me.

“Guess what,” I shouted, exploding into Headlands where I saw some friends, “I just got oinked!”

I explained what had happened, my face aglow, and my mouth twitching with laughter, but despite these obvious signs of merriment, my friends clearly thought that I was devastated by the drive by oinking.

“Oh,” someone said, “that’s awful. Who would do that?”

“Don’t you pay them any mind,” someone else said. “Who gives a shit what other people think.”

“No, you guys,” I said, “it was AWESOME! They actually thought that they were insulting me by oinking at me? I mean, who seriously thinks that! Pigs are spectacular! I am so honored to be compared to a pig, they are wicked smart and super clean and just amazing. And they taste good! I love that people thinking oinking at me is going to reduce me to a quivering blob of fatty jelly!”

“Oh. Well, then, I guess it’s good that you got oinked,” a friend finally said, after a long pause.

Yes, yes it was. It actually made my week to get oinked. It’s such an empowering moment when someone tries to insult you and you just find it amusing, don’t you think? It’s a sad thing that we live in a culture where fat women are expected to be ashamed of themselves, and where moderately chubby or buxom women are lumped in with the obese and taught to hate themselves. But the instant you see an insult as a compliment, you’ve won.

It can take a long time to get to that point, but when you do, it makes such a difference in how you view the world.