Be Happy With You
The key to being happy with yourself, isn’t found in a size, a bank balance, an address, or the right bag. But a good bag, even a knockoff, can certainly brighten your day. I used to dream of waking up thin. As a little girl, the fairy godmother of my dreams would wave her wand make me skinny and rich, and life would be perfect. I never dreamed that she would make me pretty, because even fat, I already knew that I was pretty.
Maybe it was all the backhanded compliments, like “But you have such a pretty face!”. Now this was always followed with the ubiquitous, “If only you’d lose weight.”
For all those people, all I have to say to you now that we are getting older, is. “You’d have such a pretty face, without all those wrinkles! Why don’t you gain a few pounds and see if they fill in?” I know that sounds bitchy, mean, vindictive, and all those things that us fat girls who have to get by on personality shouldn’t be, but to hell with that. I am bitter, mean, bitchy, vindictive and I don’t care. Fat people, and fat women especially, are discriminated against. You can’t make fun of people for their race, their religion, their sexual orientation, their height, their political leanings, etcetera, etcetera. However, there are two groups of people that it is still perfectly acceptable to make fun of, throw slurs at, or otherwise deride. I happen to fall into both of those categories---Fat and Southern.
Fat, in the minds of many people, is equivalent to slovenly, lazy, gluttonous and any number of other highly derogatory terms. Southern, in the minds of many, is equivalent to stupid, illiterate, inbred, racist, and so forth, and so on, ad nauseum. Bigotry is not an issue of race. We are all bigots in some fashion or other. I am a bigot. I look at skinny women, and think “I hate her”. And other people, I am sure, look at me and think, “Oh, my god! Just go on a diet!”. There is not a person in this world who is satisfied with the way they look. Whether it’s your boobs, your nose, your butt, your gut, your hair, your eyes, your skin, your wrinkles, or anything else, we would all like to change something about ourselves. But instead of thinking about what we want to change, think about what you would not change.
I have incredible bone structure. That might sound conceited, but so be it. I have high cheekbones, a good jaw line, and an undeniably cute nose, in spite of a minor accident (we’ll get to that later). I’ve also received numerous compliments on my lips, my eyes and my hair. I’m very smart, I’m reasonably well read, and my friends, at least, think I am witty. Now the question I have to ask myself is, would I give up or in anyway, alter that rather long list of things about myself that I like, to change the one thing that I don’t—namely my weight? I would think that the answer to that would be an obvious no. But that isn’t necessarily the case. There are any number women out there, women who have just as many desirable and wonderful attributes as those I have claimed for myself, who are also of a size that society would frown upon, and would give it all up to be skinny.
I don’t know when it happened exactly. At some point or other, in my very early twenties, I just looked in the mirror and said “I look good”. And it was true. To look at it objectively, just tally it. Make a list of the good and the bad, and see which is longer. Being fat is no different than having thin hair or a big nose. It isn’t just about what you eat, or about the fact that you don’t get your big ass off the couch often enough, though those things don’t help. Genetics, environment, culture, all those things are a factor. I grew up in a region where pork is a spice. You save your bacon grease to flavor your vegetables. Fat is in inevitable. It gets us all. Genetics just determines when.
Me, I’ve been fat pretty much my entire life. Those skinny bitches from high school who used to look down their noses at me because of it—well a few kids and a decade and half of southern cooking means now they are looking down their noses and over their double chins. Now, when I say skinny bitches, I am in no way implying that every thin woman is an evil, villainous, bigot who harbors an undying hatred for us fat girls. That would be narrowminded, and I prefer to think that I am not. But there are women, usually the women who are so obsessed with their own weight that they will starve themselves if the scale varies by more than two pounds, who do hate fat women, because in us, they see what they fear they will become. And if you dare not to be bound by the narrow confines of what they consider beautiful, then you might as well paint a target on your back, because they will try to make you pay for it.
Beauty, if you are willing to open yourself to the concept, comes in every, shape size and color. But the only opinion that matters in the end, is your own. If someone calls you fat, it isn’t an insult unless you allow it to be. If you are fat, and someone says so, then it is no different that someone saying “your eyes are brown”. It is only insulting if you allow yourself to fall into the trap of believing that fat is ugly, or bad, or wrong, or sinful. It might not be healthy, but neither is smoking, drinking, doing drugs or starving yourself. Those things, trends aside, seem to actually make people more attractive. And for one brief shining moment about five hundred years ago, I would have been not only a goddess, but a muse.
Look at the paintings of the Renaissance. Women had curves and lots of them. They had breasts and hips and stomachs that today would have caused their doctor’s to label them morbidly obese. And they were the beauties of the age. Okay, so many of them were also prostitutes. But they were considered beautiful by icons of the artistic world that have helped to define our very civilization.
And contrary to what fashion magazines, television and movies would have us believe, not every man out there is looking for a size two. Go on the internet, type in the term plus size, or BBW. I don’t suggest going to these sites, as most of them are undoubtedly pornographic, but take a look at the number of hits you get. If there are enough men out there who enjoy looking at larger women naked to support that number of websites, obviously, not all of them are looking for Barbie.
Be proud of yourself, your accomplishments and your life. Accept who you are, what you are, and accept that not everybody is going to like you. Appreciate the ones who do, and always be sure to list yourself among them.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
I wish this was a work of fiction, but sadly, my life is this insane.
Transporting the Pig (or Ham on the Lam, as we like to call it)
I have often been told, once I launch into one of my stories that these things could never happen to anybody else. Being the modest soul I am, I reply, “Of course, they could! My life isn’t any more interesting than anybody else’s…. It’s just all in the way you look at it.” After this last adventure, I may be inclined to agree with all those people. This stuff truly does not happen to anybody else.
Let me begin by introducing you to Chloe. Now, Chloe is a pot bellied pig, not the typical hog variety from which our many fine breakfast foods come, but the pet variety. However, pigs being pigs, Chloe liked to eat, and soon outgrew her environment (that environment being our neighbor’s house). In addition, Chloe is the Houdini of the animal kingdom. She has more magic in her little cloven hooves than half the hacks in Vegas. There isn’t a door, a fence, or a harness that can hold this girl when she’s ready to go.
Sadly, city streets being what they are, we could all envision poor Chloe coming to a bad end. She liked to wander the neighborhood, rooting for particularly tasty flower bulbs. The first time I was introduced to Chloe, I was lying in bed, and I heard the strangest noises right outside my window. This sort of snorting, snuffling sound that was unmistakably porcine. Not being a farm girl, myself, I made Emily come listen and confirm, that there was indeed a pig snorting around outside my bedroom (it would not be the first time a pig had been snorting around outside my bedroom, it would just be the first time it was a pig with four legs and a cute, little curly tail).
It wasn’t too long after that, once again in my night clothes, that there came a knock on my door fairly late at night. It was some random person from the neighborhood inquiring if that was my pig in the road, cause it was bound to get hit. I informed them, that no indeed, that was not my pig, but her owners could be located two houses down.
Poor Chloe was fast becoming a delinquent pig, forever running away from home.
It just so happened that Emily’s parents own a farm, and that they once had a pot bellied pig for a pet. Emily’s father was simply in love with the idea of having another one, and so she spoke with the neighbor, and after much consideration, it was decided by one and all that Chloe would be much safer and much happier in the country. The trick, however, was getting her there. And this, my friends, is where the adventure really begins.
Pigs are not the most aerodynamic of creatures, not a whole lot of spring in the step if you catch my meaning. It could be because they have those tiny, almost dainty little legs with a keg like body sitting right on top of them. We made all the preparations for this trip. We went to the local PetSmart and bought a large dog harness in the most alarming shade of drag-queen purple you’ve ever seen, and with it a matching leash. The harness went on the pig okay, and as long as we were just walking her around in the neighborhood, she was fine with that. When it came to leading her into a vehicle, that is when things began to go downhill. Maybe it is some sort of Darwinian response, maybe animals, particularly those that it is socially acceptable to consume in this country, have some sort of instinct about getting into vehicles with something that is higher up on the food chain. Call it farfetched, but if this pig is smart enough to open a gate, she’s smart enough to have a sense of self preservation. You remember that line from Silence of the Lambs, where Hannibal and Clarice are talking about the lambs screaming. Well, I imagine that this is sort of what that sounded like. That pig screamed, squalled, hollered and carried on loud enough to wake the dead.
Self preservation aside, there are some things that make even the smartest girls do things they’ll regret. In my case, it is usually vodka. In Chloe’s case, it’s Doritos. So, with the help of our neighbor, and particularly her husband, we lifted this pig into the tarp shrouded backseat of a Saturn Ion. They should give us our very own commercial for this, I swear. Maybe they could steal the line from Capital One, only instead of your wallet, it would ask, “What’s in your Saturn?”
Emily is the brave one. I just drove the car. Sort of sounds like a liquor store hold up when you put it that way, but there you have it. Within five minutes of being on the road, Emily was covered in things I can’t even begin to discuss. Chloe, being the adventurer that she is, took to travel by automobile reasonably well. She even sniffed and snorted around a little bit to acclimate herself to her environment. It is more than a little unnerving to drive a car with a pig’s snout stuck in your ribcage. Eventually, however, Chloe settled in and was easily mollified by the occasional nacho flavored snack. I was driving extra careful, and I admit it freely, slower than I have driven in years! But, this pig had already let loose with a couple of her bodily functions and the last thing I wanted was more of them.
Everything was going along just fine. We were maybe ten minutes away from the farm, which was more than thirty country miles from where we started, when this redneck yahoo without a muffler decided he needed to pass us. So, Chloe starts to get nervous, and she proceeds to prance around on Emily’s thighs. So we bribed her with more Doritos. In retrospect, this may not have been our best idea. I will say this about pigs and Doritos. Keep your windows down. There is no fart as noxious as the fart of a nervous pig with a love of junk food.
We did eventually reach the farm, without further mishap. I drove the rest of the way with my shirt pulled up over my nose. I really did look like I’d been party to a hold up of some sort. When we finally gotto the farm, Chloe was having none of it. She was done with people, she was particularly done with us, and whatever we had led her to, well she just wasn’t going to budge. So, Emily’s dad, Emily and myself, had to literally lift the pig out of the backseat with the tarp, using it like a sling. Once her little cloven hooves were on nonmoving ground, she seemed a little more willing to forgive us. Eventually, we herded her to her new pen. She got to meet the ducks and the geese, and the puppies. And I imagine, as long as the Doritos keep coming, life will be just fine.
Now, for me, the best part of this story was getting to tell it to my friends, particularly Denise, who until I took her to Jellico for the first time had never seen a chicken not wrapped in plastic and resting on its very own Styrofoam tray. So, I call her up and leave her this message on her answering machine about how I’ll be out of touch for the day because I’m going to be transporting a pig. Well, her mother got the message before she did, and Sue thinks that “transporting the pig” is code for something, I don’t know if it’s a hot new street drug or maybe a man whore, but if it’s in code it must be illicit, and therefore an even better time. But apparently, neither one would come as much of a surprise to anybody, and I’m just not sure how to feel about that.
I have often been told, once I launch into one of my stories that these things could never happen to anybody else. Being the modest soul I am, I reply, “Of course, they could! My life isn’t any more interesting than anybody else’s…. It’s just all in the way you look at it.” After this last adventure, I may be inclined to agree with all those people. This stuff truly does not happen to anybody else.
Let me begin by introducing you to Chloe. Now, Chloe is a pot bellied pig, not the typical hog variety from which our many fine breakfast foods come, but the pet variety. However, pigs being pigs, Chloe liked to eat, and soon outgrew her environment (that environment being our neighbor’s house). In addition, Chloe is the Houdini of the animal kingdom. She has more magic in her little cloven hooves than half the hacks in Vegas. There isn’t a door, a fence, or a harness that can hold this girl when she’s ready to go.
Sadly, city streets being what they are, we could all envision poor Chloe coming to a bad end. She liked to wander the neighborhood, rooting for particularly tasty flower bulbs. The first time I was introduced to Chloe, I was lying in bed, and I heard the strangest noises right outside my window. This sort of snorting, snuffling sound that was unmistakably porcine. Not being a farm girl, myself, I made Emily come listen and confirm, that there was indeed a pig snorting around outside my bedroom (it would not be the first time a pig had been snorting around outside my bedroom, it would just be the first time it was a pig with four legs and a cute, little curly tail).
It wasn’t too long after that, once again in my night clothes, that there came a knock on my door fairly late at night. It was some random person from the neighborhood inquiring if that was my pig in the road, cause it was bound to get hit. I informed them, that no indeed, that was not my pig, but her owners could be located two houses down.
Poor Chloe was fast becoming a delinquent pig, forever running away from home.
It just so happened that Emily’s parents own a farm, and that they once had a pot bellied pig for a pet. Emily’s father was simply in love with the idea of having another one, and so she spoke with the neighbor, and after much consideration, it was decided by one and all that Chloe would be much safer and much happier in the country. The trick, however, was getting her there. And this, my friends, is where the adventure really begins.
Pigs are not the most aerodynamic of creatures, not a whole lot of spring in the step if you catch my meaning. It could be because they have those tiny, almost dainty little legs with a keg like body sitting right on top of them. We made all the preparations for this trip. We went to the local PetSmart and bought a large dog harness in the most alarming shade of drag-queen purple you’ve ever seen, and with it a matching leash. The harness went on the pig okay, and as long as we were just walking her around in the neighborhood, she was fine with that. When it came to leading her into a vehicle, that is when things began to go downhill. Maybe it is some sort of Darwinian response, maybe animals, particularly those that it is socially acceptable to consume in this country, have some sort of instinct about getting into vehicles with something that is higher up on the food chain. Call it farfetched, but if this pig is smart enough to open a gate, she’s smart enough to have a sense of self preservation. You remember that line from Silence of the Lambs, where Hannibal and Clarice are talking about the lambs screaming. Well, I imagine that this is sort of what that sounded like. That pig screamed, squalled, hollered and carried on loud enough to wake the dead.
Self preservation aside, there are some things that make even the smartest girls do things they’ll regret. In my case, it is usually vodka. In Chloe’s case, it’s Doritos. So, with the help of our neighbor, and particularly her husband, we lifted this pig into the tarp shrouded backseat of a Saturn Ion. They should give us our very own commercial for this, I swear. Maybe they could steal the line from Capital One, only instead of your wallet, it would ask, “What’s in your Saturn?”
Emily is the brave one. I just drove the car. Sort of sounds like a liquor store hold up when you put it that way, but there you have it. Within five minutes of being on the road, Emily was covered in things I can’t even begin to discuss. Chloe, being the adventurer that she is, took to travel by automobile reasonably well. She even sniffed and snorted around a little bit to acclimate herself to her environment. It is more than a little unnerving to drive a car with a pig’s snout stuck in your ribcage. Eventually, however, Chloe settled in and was easily mollified by the occasional nacho flavored snack. I was driving extra careful, and I admit it freely, slower than I have driven in years! But, this pig had already let loose with a couple of her bodily functions and the last thing I wanted was more of them.
Everything was going along just fine. We were maybe ten minutes away from the farm, which was more than thirty country miles from where we started, when this redneck yahoo without a muffler decided he needed to pass us. So, Chloe starts to get nervous, and she proceeds to prance around on Emily’s thighs. So we bribed her with more Doritos. In retrospect, this may not have been our best idea. I will say this about pigs and Doritos. Keep your windows down. There is no fart as noxious as the fart of a nervous pig with a love of junk food.
We did eventually reach the farm, without further mishap. I drove the rest of the way with my shirt pulled up over my nose. I really did look like I’d been party to a hold up of some sort. When we finally gotto the farm, Chloe was having none of it. She was done with people, she was particularly done with us, and whatever we had led her to, well she just wasn’t going to budge. So, Emily’s dad, Emily and myself, had to literally lift the pig out of the backseat with the tarp, using it like a sling. Once her little cloven hooves were on nonmoving ground, she seemed a little more willing to forgive us. Eventually, we herded her to her new pen. She got to meet the ducks and the geese, and the puppies. And I imagine, as long as the Doritos keep coming, life will be just fine.
Now, for me, the best part of this story was getting to tell it to my friends, particularly Denise, who until I took her to Jellico for the first time had never seen a chicken not wrapped in plastic and resting on its very own Styrofoam tray. So, I call her up and leave her this message on her answering machine about how I’ll be out of touch for the day because I’m going to be transporting a pig. Well, her mother got the message before she did, and Sue thinks that “transporting the pig” is code for something, I don’t know if it’s a hot new street drug or maybe a man whore, but if it’s in code it must be illicit, and therefore an even better time. But apparently, neither one would come as much of a surprise to anybody, and I’m just not sure how to feel about that.
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