Me and My Scales Part 4: Scales of Doom

This post has been in draft for a very long time. I haven’t posted much over the past year, but I hope this addition to the Me and My Scales series will kick-start it off again. This builds on my philosophy that fat and size acceptance are an ongoing journey, not a destination.

Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3

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I did not one day hear the Fat Acceptance Word and shriek: “Glory!” I was not saved.

I did not go forth and diet no more.

For a long time, I still weighed myself. I still rated my value according to the number on the scale. Yes, even though I let myself eat what I wanted. And after so many years of restriction and self denial, what I wanted was food and lots of it. And I still felt the need to binge – to consume vast quantities of ‘forbidden’ food in secret – although the binges became less frequent and a smaller amount of food over time. To the point that I have not binged in years, incidentally.

(No, I’m not claiming ‘good fatty’ status – just stating that for me food restriction, AKA dieting, was one end of a wildly tottering seesaw with binging on the other end. Allowing my eating to self-regulate eventually allowed the seesaw to balance.)

Clearly, this wasn’t self care, but strangely, I feel it was a part of my path being able to care for myself.

I really don’t know how to describe the ‘in between years’ when intellectually I understood that my body did not deserve my hatred, but I hadn’t come to the point where loving my body was natural to me.

But, at some point, the scales disappeared.

I am not sure when, exactly. You would think I’d have a suitably dramatic memory of tossing the scales out the window, or running them over, or some similar angry, defiant act. But I don’t.

Nevertheless, I was somewhat anxious when my partner John commenced home dialysis a few years ago and I had to allow a pair of scales into the house (so he can work out how much fluid is removed each night – ‘dry’ weight vs his pre-dialysis weight).

They sat ominously in the corner of the bathroom: THE SCALES OF DOOM.

I worried that I would be tempted (or perhaps ‘compelled’ is the word?) to re-enter an obsession with a kilo lost or a kilo gained, that I would be on the whole diet merry-go-around again.

But, after about 15 or so years of actively not dieting, and instinctive eating, I found that I was sufficiently at ease with my size and weight to look in the mirror and enjoy my shape, not for its potential if I lose a few kilos, but as it is now.

But I still have ‘bad’ days of course. Doesn’t everyone?

Accepting one’s body as it exists today is a challenge, particularly if one is DEATHFAT.

I remember one particular ‘bad’ day a few years ago relating to the production of one of my partner’s art works. We were sourcing most of the costumes for a 70s tableau from a costume hire studio – and all they had to fit my size were hideous mumus and caftans. I was reduced to humilated tears. It worked out fine in the end – I ended up wearing a black corset over one of the groovier caftans and it looked great – but the humiliation and SHAME OF BEING FAT burned deep that day, even though I declared myself ‘pro-size acceptance’ and had for some time.

That’s part of what I mean about size acceptance and fat acceptance being a journey. We have an idealised goal in mind, but we are human. We have doubts and failings and slips and stumbles. My weight has gone up and down during this time, but that is a natural thing which doesn’t bother me either way. I haven’t been on a scale in a long time, and could only guess at what I weigh (approx 115kg +/- 5kg). At the moment, I am on a downward cycle (My jeans from last year completely slip over my hips), but that is not through any conscious decision to lose weight. I don’t feel like I am depriving myself of anything – quite the opposite in fact! However I am sure that at some point, I will be on a gaining cycle again.

We are battling against anti-fat propaganda and pressure to be thin. In fact, I believe it goes further; it’s a pressure on women in general to be aware of the *beholder* (you know “beauty is in the eye of…”, etc.) That is, we judge ourselves (and are judged) by external things – how we dress, our make up, whether our hair is professionally coifed or tousled, our size – things that are basically superficial.

The realisation that we can base our self-esteem on things other than our appearance is a big one, but very, very hard. I don’t think anyone can perfectly achieve size acceptance 100% of the time, but being aware that it is a path we can choose is a really important first step.

Forbidden Regions

Of all the ads cashing in on the MUST-LOSE-WEIGHT New Year Resolutions, this one from Contours, an Australian franchise of gyms targeting women (as if you couldn’t tell by the name) cheeses me off the most.

Oh sure, the women in it are ‘normal’ (read: they aren’t Hollywood thin or gym junkies). They are happy. They are having fun in an energetic way. So why to I hate this commercial so much?

Simply because, with its cheerful chant about “arms, bellies, bums and thighs”, it blithely forbids women to be happy with any of the listed parts. After all, they are our Trouble Zones, aren’t they ladies? It simply isn’t socially acceptable to be happy with one’s Forbidden Regions.

• If you think you are happy with your arms, think again. Haven’t you heard of bingo wings?
• If you think your belly is just right, think again. Got a bit of a muffin top, there, haven’t you love?
• If you think your bum is perky, think again. God, look at that cottage cheese.
• And don’t even mention your thighs. They are like hams.

So get thee to a nunnery Contours and do thy (happy! energetic!) penance in only 29 minutes!

(As an aside, have you ever noticed how much of the terminology used to shame women about their body parts is food related? Food is shameful. Bodies are shameful. Bodies that consume food are anathema. AAAARGH!)

That thing that’s so enjoyable

From the Jan 2009 edition of Vanity Fair (the full article is posted at ohnotheydidnt):

Fey says, “I got to that thing that’s so enjoyable where people tell you, ‘Oh, you’re thin, you’ve gotten too thin.’ [my emphasis] Lorne was like, ‘Please, please make sure you’re eating.”’ McKay recalls Fey telling a story about her heavier days. “Steve Martin walked right past her at the coffee table, and then, after the makeover, he was like, ‘Well, hel-looo—who are you?’ ”

Wow. I’ve been there, when I dieted. Not the too ‘thin thing’ – I’ve never been ‘too thin’, even at my thinnest I was fat – but I’ve had the thrill of having people tell me I was losing weight too rapidly or that I needed to eat enough. And I saw those comments as a measure of my success as a dieter and as a person. So I understand the triumph that Tina must have felt at that point.

Tina Fey is amazing. She’s witty, funny and her parodies are clever and insightful. She is rightly worshipped after her all to accurate Sarah Palin skits. Shit, we don’t even get SNL in Australia so I watched her every skit on the SNL website (before they regionally restricted access to the videos).

But it is tragic and telling that Tina’s massive talent was not the key to her success. It was, sad to say, her looks.

A make over. The sexy librarian thing. Going from 150 pounds to 120 pounds.

According to the article, Tina is 5′ 4.5″, so at 150 pounds, she was by no means fat. Using the examples in the Photographic Height/Weight Chart, Tina may well have had a body shape like one of these two women.

In other words, only fat by entertainment industry standards.

Her makeover is the stuff of legend. The Hollywood agent Sue Mengers warned her pal Lorne Michaels that he simply could not bring Fey out of the writers’ room and put her on-air for “Weekend Update.”

“She doesn’t have the looks,” Mengers told him.

“Lorne brought her over to my house when she was head writer,” Mengers recalls. “She was very mousy. I thought, Well, they gotta be having an affair. But they weren’t. He just appreciated her talent. [My emphasis, again] And now, suddenly, she’s become this sexy, showing-tit, hot-looking woman. I said to Lorne, ‘What the fuck did she do?”’

‘

Mengers, an agent, appears absolutely stunned that a man’s admiration of a woman’s talent can be independent to either a) access to that woman’s body for fucking or b) his perception of the woman’s sexual attractiveness.

Tina was head writer on SNL for heaven’s sake.

So the lesson presented to us today by society and the media is that success is looking too thin and that looking too thin is the key to success.

Fuck that.

This is what I am rebelling against. This is why I am a Fat Acceptance Activist and a Size Acceptance Activist and a Feminist.

I refuse to learn that lesson.

Me. My Body.

My breasts are ample, although somewhat smallish for a fat chick – and I love my breasts.

My bounteous arse looks even more substantial because of how my spine arches – and I love my arse.

My belly’s soft curves undulate when I walk – and I love my belly.

My abundant hips flow from my waist in pear-shaped glory – and I love my hips.

My thighs are pinkly dimpled – and I love my thighs.

My body is short and round and fat – and I love my body.

I stand in the shower, looking in the bathroom mirror, and I like what I see. I see me. I see my shape. I see myself taking up space in the world. I see a goddess. I see my beauty.

My head just exploded…

The mayor from Mt Isa (a mining town in Queensland, Australia) clearly has difficulty attracting women. Perhaps his lack of success in love is not due to the gender imbalance of the town but can be accounted for by the indisputable fact that he is a complete and utter tosser whom no self-respecting woman would touch with a barge pole.

As evidence, take his charming comments below: