Poetic Justice

I read an article today on CNN.com about body shaming in the entertainment industry.  It was a stark reminder to me that us Fat Lane-ers do not hold the market on shame.  The article shone a bright light on how much celebrities get body shamed, some for being too fat, some too thin.  The article highlighted women that have been accused of having butts, boobs, or belly.  It also addressed the struggles of pencil thin models and actresses constantly having to defend themselves against accusations of anorexia.  I wasn't surprised.  I was just sad.  These women, these human beings, were broken down into their pieces.  They were compared to animals and attacked for insect-like limbs or elephant thighs.  

As I pondered the sad state of current human relations one of the first things that came to my mind was Walt Whitman's I Sing the Body Electric.  The way he describes the eyes, the limbs, the torso.  It's truly beautiful.  But that beauty is contrasted by the realization that the piece is a commentary on the slave trade.  Human beings broken down based on their physical utility.  Beautiful men and women bought, sold, traded for their strong shoulders, ample chests, and the prospect of equally endowed offspring to continue the master's benefit.  Whitman refers to the auctioneer as one who "does not know half his business."  In this we are reminded that there is so much more to a body than what we choose to see.  That the sinews and skin are an outer manifestation of what lies deep within.  Strong, but tempered hearts and minds beleaguered to a menial existence.  Quietly reveling in the artistry that lies just under the surface known only by the soul.   

Now here we are over a century later and we are still creating chattel of people.  Instead of plowing or sewing we ask that they sing or perform for us.  Once again human beings broken down based on their physical utility.  And again I am saddened.  But then I'm reminded of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman.  I love the line, "I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size."  She describes the beauty in the reach of our arms and the span of our hips.  Men wonder but are unable to understand the inner mystery of a woman.  I guess, much like Whitman's auctioneer, they simply don't know half their business.  Women exist in a paradox of outward beauty and inner care and grace.

Which leads me to one of my favorite poems of all time.  "She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climbs and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes; / Thus mellowed to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies."  -- Lord Byron  I've only written the first of 3 stanzas here for brevity's sake, but throughout the poem you are presented a beautiful woman without actually being told of her physical beauty.  We don't know her height nor her eye color.  We know nothing of her curves.  All we are given is an air of elegance expressed through the dichotomy of light and dark.  Each of us has a picture of the woman that they have constructed for ourselves, but the author had ensured that no two pictures are alike.

I wish I lived in a world of Whitman's, Angelou's, and Byron's.  Well, maybe not Byron.  Byron is...hmmm...let's just say controversial.  But the underlying premise remains.  I want people to know me for my talents and not my dress size.  I want a boy to be intrigued, not intimidated, by my intellect.  I want people to talk to me at parties because I have interesting things to say.  I want to dance without people laughing, though that might be asking a bit too much.  And I want to do the same for others.  Maybe someday.  A girl can always dream.

The Right Angle

I have a new dress.  I like my new dress.  It's a very pretty dress.  Except from behind.  Or a slight profile.  Or if I'm slouching.  Ah hell, let's just call a spade a spade.  The dress is very pretty. It's me that's ruining the aesthetic.

There is a constant monologue running through my head, no matter what I'm wearing.  I get dressed in the morning just like everyone else on the planet, but then I have to take an extra 20 minutes or so (some days more 'or so' than others) to examine myself in the mirror from every conceivable angle.  Then I make a mental list of things like 'don't hunch or your back fat looks gross', 'turn a little to the right when facing people so they don't see as much cleavage', and/or 'make sure to pull the front of your tunic down regularly throughout the day or else the back will look way longer than the front and that's just weird'.  Many of you might be starting to think I'm just little bit OCD off the deep end.  For those of you that read the previous statements and said 'I know, right?!?!?! then congratulations.  You're living life in the fat lane.

I really, really hope there are others out there that have the same pre-'leaving the house' ritual that I do.  I'm typically a VERY punctual person.  I'm punctual to the point of actually having been born on my exact due date.  I hate to keep people waiting. So if you're expecting me at a certain time, and I message you that I'm running late, it's probably because I can't get my right calf to be as skinny in a certain pair of jeans as my left calf.  Or maybe it's because I spent an hour doing my hair and it looks so shiny and bouncy, but for some reason it's enhancing my double chin so I have to figure out how to have bouncy hair AND a thinner neck both at the same time.  The struggle is real, people.

NBC has a new show out this fall called This Is Us that's giving me hope that I'm not alone in all this.  If you haven't seen the first 2 episodes, get your butt online or On Demand and catch up.  It's freaking amazing.  I won't go into all the characters; I just want to focus on two of them, Kate and Toby.  Kate and Toby meet at a support group for what I've decided to call Fat Lane-ers (my words, not NBC's).  Toby hits on Kate but she turns him down saying that she can't get involved with someone overweight.  Toby says 'I guess I'll just have to lose the weight.'  He wins her over and they start dating. In last week's episode Toby convinces Kate to go to a Hollywood party.  There's a pivotal scene where Kate looks around and sees everyone around her laughing.  To the rest of the world all those people are talking and laughing and enjoying a party. To Kate they're laughing at her and joking about how many tarps it must have taken to make a dress her size. I know this because it's exactly how I feel in any number of my very pretty dresses.

Chrissy Metz is the actress that plays Kate.  She's just playing a part, but she's still a woman.  And she's still a Fat Lane-er.  I'm imagining her standing in front of a mirror in her dressing room turning herself left, right, over-the-shoulder, shoulders back but not too far back when she hears a knock at the door and the words, 'Five minutes, Ms. Metz.'  And then she knows she has to go out there and be Kate.  That's gotta be hard to do.  I can't imagine being the fat chick on national television.  Hell, I won't even take selfies with my dearest friends.  I stand in awe of Chrissy's bravery and fortitude.  She's playing a part, but that part represents the third of all American women who are considered obese, myself included.  She gives us a name, a heart, a soul.  She creates a space for all of us to exist.

So, in honor of Chrissy Metz, I will wear my pretty dress.  And I will adore my pretty dress.  I will not worry about my back fat, or my cleavage, or whether or not all of my fat has been properly lashed down under my Spanx.  No.  I will walk confidently.  I will feel the lace swish across my legs.  I will feel feminine.  I will feel proud.  And I will thank Chrissy Metz for having the courage to do the same.