You know what?
I'm fat.
Yes. Fat.
Overweight. Plus-size. Full-figured.
Rotund. Rubenesque. Portly.
I don't care what you want to call it. I'm a size 18 and for my body, that is fat.
And you know what else? I'm ok with it. Really, I am.
I had a friend tell me tonight that I need to stop self-depreciating because it doesn't suit me. I understand what they were trying to say. Most of the time when a woman mentions the junk in her trunk, she's saying it with downcast eyes and a vow to join the ranks of Jenny Craig right after Thanksgiving dinner. She hates the way she looks and can't stand seeing herself in a full-length mirror. She promises herself time and time again that salad will be what's on the menu after her Sweatin' to the Oldies DVD.
The thing is, I'm alright with being fat. Which is not to be confused with any of the following:
- I think being fat is the best thing ever.
- I'm much hotter fat than I ever was thin.
-I want to stay fat because I get an entire couch cushion to myself instead of having to share.
- Being fat coats my heart in a protective barrier of blubber, keeping it warm like a baby kangaroo.
- I like going into Walmart and noticing my selection of clothing is limited to a large, white t-shirt with a kitten on it or a rhinestone-encrusted tank top with a floral pattern and Snoopy on it.
None of those are accurate. I want to lose weight and keep it off like I was doing before the Spawn crawled out of my belly. I think losing weight will probably prolong my life. But I don't hate the way I look right now because my body gave me three beautiful (noisy, hyper, defiant...) children and nursed them and snuggled them and gives them hugs and kisses. Hard to hate something that miraculous.
No, I won't despise the rolls on my body, but I won't deny they're there, either. Fat isn't a bad word to me, and perhaps that's the confusion. It's just a description of the way things are right now in the Maven bod. Big deal. I love myself.
Heck, how could I not? It's me we're talking about here. The Maven. I mean, wow.
Well, except sometimes. Like tonight, after visiting a friend for coffee. Fall-Out Girl and I made up a few weeks ago and had talked a lot of things through. However, she told me about something I did back then that I had completely forgotten about. It had really hurt her feelings and played a significant roll in the complete and utter destruction of our friendship at the time. I had said something very judgmental about her and she found out about it.
Er... Oops. Heh. That judgment thingy again.
Of course I apologized to her about it as soon as she brought it up. Duh. The Maven owns her actions because that's what big girls do. I can't continue down the path of near perfection if I try to justify being a stupidhead.
Then, I got into my van, drove away and felt that enormous pang of guilt. Huge. Bigger than my sizable ass. Bigger than a mountain of cookies. Or donuts. I got teary and felt stressed out.
And, lo and behold, I wound up in the Tim Hortons drive-through.
Hmmm, how did that happen?
'One super-size order of Eat My McFeelings, please.'
It's incredible how the mind seeks comfort. I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I'd love to be addicted to sex but just don't have much opportunity to work on it. So instead I stuff my face with food when I feel sad. It's my alcohol, except it's less expensive and I can legally drive while inhaling it (not that I'd want to inhale alcohol... or food for that matter, really.)
Thankfully I realized what I was doing, wiped the tears away and ordered a decaf coffee.
Good, Maven. The fat hobbit made good choices.
See? I do love myself, even when I'm feeling badly about being a big bitch.
My team 2 jersey is put away permanently. It's getting too big on me, anyway.