Being Fat (Or At Least, Feeling Fat)
First of all, if you like being fat, good for you, own it! If you don’t like it, that sucks.
I’m not actually that fat. Note the word “that” connoting I am fat but there is room to grow, after all.
Let’s reframe this. I’m the fattest I’ve been in my life. This statement is true and without question. I’m at my highest weight and BMI, which is at the high end of “acceptable.” Fact. Fat fact.
I finally relented and bought a couple pairs of “this is my temporary new weight because nothing fits except sweatpants and wearing those in public is lazier than being fat” jeans.
I’m not fat-shaming fat people. Just myself. (And anyone at any size wearing sweatpants in public if not going to the gym.)
My dad was a big fatty.
And I loved my dad and my mom loved him. And at the same time, he was a big, fat man. You can be fat and you can be loveable. One doesn’t cancel the other out. 
He also died at 53 years old of a heart attack (his third).
Obesity kills people.
Obesity kills, people!
Modern society has a difficult time accepting that reality.
Of course, not every chunky monkey is going to kick it early because he’s packing extra weight.
There are relatively healthy “overweight” folks and there are Skinny Minnies on their last scrawny leg.
Newer studies suggest some of what we carry physiologically is genetic. Fat parents have a greater chance of having fat kids. Not only because of what those parents feed their kids, but because offspring of pudgy parents may be genetically predisposed to plumping.
I’m not making an excuse for myself (or anyone else). I believe we’re not destined by our genes—or our “fat phase” jeans—but yes, some have to be more careful. If they give a care.
And that brings me back to my big, fat dad. He didn’t give a care about being fat. Well, except when My Little Mom (MLM) harassed him about the health consequences of it. And not because he cared about his health, but because MLM was a spicy, little Mexican with a chili-pepper temper.
My dad loved food. Not just a wee bit. No, food didn’t simply nourish his body, it soothed his sad soul, and food was his passion. The smell, the taste, the texture.
Was he eating his pain away? Could be. (His first wife and three kids died in a train accident. See memoir.)
After he died (a few weeks before I turned 12 years old) and went to be with his heavenly family, my mom often quoted him as having said, “I’d rather live five years happy than 10 years miserable.”
And even though his death messed up my psyche for a long time—“Am I not worth living 10 years miserable for?”—I don’t begrudge him. I’ve done a lot, most, maybe all, of my healing around that particular childhood trauma.
And, hello!, food is amazing! It is delicious, mmm-worthy, yumdilliummy!
At the same time, at this heavy-for-me weight, I feel yucky in my body. Not only looking in the mirror, though that also bothers me, but because I feel sluggish, frumpy and dumpy.
And I don’t care if you think I look fine. I don’t care if you think “men love a few curves.” I don’t care if it’s because of menopause, or stress, or donuts. And I don’t care if anyone else is or isn’t fat. I’ve lived in my body for 55 years, you’ve never been in it. (And you won’t be with that attitude, Sir!)
So, I’m venting about being, or at least feeling, fat. Please don’t invalidate my experience.
However! I’m a gal determined to walk her talk, so I’m doing something about it.
Because the standards I have for others are the standards I have for myself when it comes to bitchin’ and moanin’.
The first vent is free. After that, I need to hear self-accountability, solutions, or silver linings.
Side note: Venting is not free. It’s an addictive dopamine loop keeping us stuck in the struggle. Because venting about something triggers the same relief pathways as actually doing something about it but on a lesser scale. Over-analysis leads to paralysis. Also, complainers are drainers, so do something to change the situation if you can or accept the situation if you can’t. (That was for me, too btw.)
Therefore, my tolerant reader…
- Self-accountability: Even though I have ME/CFS and can’t move as much as I’d like, I don’t need to be shovelling Fatty Pants foods in my face.
- Solutions: Stop shovelling said foods in said face. Pace to do more net.
- Silver lining: Increased empathy? I feel for people who don’t like being (or feeling) fat. Will I still judge you? Yes. But I’ll judge myself, too, so there is that.
Ohhh, I should tell you about my ordeal with the Heart and Stroke Association and the Stroke Prevention Clinic! Nah, too stressful to relive it.
Spoiler Alert and Bottom Line: I do not need statins! I do need to lower saturated fat, processed foods, and everything worth living for. But thanks to vanity, I have a chance!
That’s all I’ve got for now. If I’ve offended someone—good. That means I wasn’t filtering myself. Please know I don’t intend to offend. At the same time, we may not have the same values and/or there may be a miscommunication/misunderstanding in what I’m trying to communicate. Or simply an incompatible sense of humour. On that note…
Thanks for being here! That’s a choice. And I appreciate you for it.
What we have relearned:
It’s the obvious stuff we (I) need to keep re-learning. Maybe that’s OK.
Homework:
Let it be OK, FFS, AJ.
OK, love you, bye!
p.s. Here are some Fat Snaps for yah!
