Self-absorbed screed

Before I begin this entry, I suppose I should warn any of you who are squeamish about sex and intimacy and semi-crude words to describe such acts that this post is exactly about that., and you might want to skip it. Otherwise, feel free to read on.

I had a hard time sleeping last night, partly because of the Midwest's rapid plunge into the frigid bowels of winter, complete with ice chattering against my windowpanes and two extremely fidgety cats who decided to spend their Friday evening and early Saturday morning burrowing for warmth underneath my thighs and also bathing and rebathing every single body part with tongues scraping against fur loud enough to imitate twin dueling belt sanders. I was also awake because a conversation I had with a close friend gave me a lot to ruminate over, and not in a really productive way.

Our discussion started out innocently enough. I think we were talking about celebrities he found attractive, and I interjected with a question I've been wondering about for a long time. I asked him if when men say "I prefer my women with curves" if they mean curves like a padded stomach and size fourteen hips and asses, or do they basically just mean "Big boobs, like a Victoria's Secret model"? He responded that he personally thought curves referred to women of size, and then added that a woman who could fit into a 10 or 12 jean was precisely what he found most desirable in the world. I guess, at this point, the Klaxon bells ringing in both of our heads should've clued us not to go down this particular path, that it's never a good idea to wage a one on one battle of the sexes, to just turn back now and talk about football or NBC television programming or basically ANYTHING AT ALL other than men and fat chicks and how they interact in the world.

But I didn't. I kept dropping the bait, and he kept biting.

I made a little comment that perhaps considering sizes 10-12 as an indicator of "larger women" would've been accurate in the 1950's, or even 1970's, but probably not now. Then I dropped the big loaded question and inquired why men who DO say they prefer women with curves act like they've done something great and philanthropic by declaring their tolerance for junk in the trunk, and the thighs that usually come with them. Do they think it's politically correct to say that? Do they feel they're helping to stop the surge of eating disorders in the U.S. by practicing fat acceptance? Do they even really mean it?

And my friend's response, as innocent he was in his intentions, was made me double over in disgust and shock right there in the middle of the conversation:

"I don't know. I've never really been with what you're calling a 'big girl'. I suppose it could be sensual, but honestly I would be scared my dick would even be able to fit inside all that cushioning."

There was a long pause. And then I asked him if he really thought fat women couldn't have sex...that somehow our size would prevent us from having working vaginas and being able to spread our legs and move sexually and bring a man to orgasm. He said he didn't know. He didn't think so, and he was surprised that fat women really could be capable lovers.

And so, in the wreckage of that conversation turned very, very ugly, I found the answers to the questions I had unofficially been researching this whole time. Perhaps this is an egregiously hasty generalization, but what I've learned is that men don't really like fat women, and if they do they want a goddamn merit badge for feeling that way.

Pasta Queen wrote an incredible article about some of the hidden benefits of being obese, and the one that resonated with me most (something I've been thinking about ever since I read it last week) was the idea that fat people tend to have a hyperdeveloped "asshole detector" in place as they interact with society. I think this applies especially to women, as men just don't bother with making the effort if there's not going to be sexual potential later. I wonder, if obese people were treated with the same deference as drug addicts and alcoholics and those who are sensitive about race and religion, if actually being healthy and losing weight would seem less daunting because at least part of the emotional baggage would be mitigated.

I think the moment we begin to strip away the pounds and the flesh, parts of our ability to cope also fall away and we're very raw until we learn healthier defense mechanisms. I know while I was in the process of gaining so much weight I was in a very deep state of denial, about my health, my size, who I was. Things were always "not that bad". I wasn't really as fat as the scale said, because we all know scales are inaccurate. My jeans were only getting tighter because I accidentally dried them on high heat. I liked being home alone on Saturday nights because I just didn't know anyone who was willing to appreciate me and willing to overlook my appearance. I would wait just another day before I started really dieting and working out because I was too tired to dig in today. I have done this my entire life, and ultimately all that fat that's on my body has served more as emotional insulation than physical. Even while I'm losing pounds, the ginormous chip on my shoulder is fixed firmly in place, because my size helps me identify the tolerant from the intolerant, the shallow from the genuine. It kept me shielded from relationships with people who ultimately wouldn't want the "real" me, even though the real me had been hidden for a very long time. When I was finally forced to be honest with myself about the state of my life, the wounds that well-meaning friends, lovers, boyfriends have all inflicted on me about my size reopened, and they hurt like hell. I cannot resent people for their opinions, but at the same time how can they think it's okay to tell someone they'd be an incredible person if they could only stop being lazy and finally get around to losing that pesky hundred pounds? How, how, HOW can we say that so casually to people we love when we recoil from the idea of asking others to cut back on the wine, or keep the pills in the medicine cabinet, and we would never, ever say "Hey..you and I would be an amazing couple if you'd just try a little harder to stop being gay, you know?"

If I'm going to have to be a size 8 to be comfortable in my skin, to run a 5K, to have amazing leg extensions during a slow tango, to just physically accomplish the things I want to do in life, so be it. But psychologically, I'd much rather be a size 14 who can listen to all the bullshit people have to say about the obese and just respond with a polite "fuck you."

I have to wonder, though, when does it get easier to do that, or is it always going to sting?