Of Course I Have a Fork in My Hand

There came a point in my life where I found myself lying in bed in the middle of the day, eating a danish, and crying over Cupcake Wars.

That was last week.

Two days ago I found myself lying in bed in the middle of the day again. No danish this time, Oprah instead of Food Network, and I’m crying because Paula Deen walks onto the stage with a plate full of cookies. I can’t say that I’m overly emotional about food, there was a back story to these events, and after all, I’m not a complete waste of space yet. The winner of the war between the cakes in cups induced tears not because of the sheer beauty of the cupcakes themselves, but because I really wanted that woman to win damn it and she did and it was beautiful and the charity director who was judging was crying and the woman was crying and I was crying. Oprah had a little boy that loved to cook in honor of his twin that died from a brain tumor at the age of nine and Paula Deen was his hero.

It’s not an every day occurrence that I find myself in bed in the middle of the day, although it happens more than I would like, and it’s definitely not every day that I find myself openly weeping over baked goods on television. This however should have been some kind of turning point in my life, it very well may turn out that way, but it hasn’t happened yet. It was just last week after all.

Several things came together to lead me to the point where I felt I needed to pour my little fat girl’s heart out on paper, or screen if you will. I am considered fat by skinny people and skinny by fat people. There is no whining for the chubby girls and there is no solace. There is no group that we fit into except with each other and we don’t like each other very much because there can be no fat friend when we’re all the same size. No one of us looks any better solely because we are next to each other. I have chubby friends that have fat friends because the fat friend makes them look smaller by comparison. I have skinny friends that have collection of us in varying shapes and sizes for the same reason. The only way the fat friend can come out ahead is if the skinny friend is ugly, and those of us that are homely have no chance at all.

Another factor that played into this “sudden” realization of self was a trailer for the film version of “Eat, Pray, Love.” Well, of course you’re on a “no carb left behind” experiment, you’re a stomach virus away from sudden death there, Karen Carpenter. Oh, the joy of having an unlimited cash flow that enables you to travel around the world “discovering yourself”, eating everything in sight, and sleeping with strange men with horribly faked accents. This story is not empowering. Poor women are not empowered by the “trust fund baby” like journey of a beautiful, well off woman in her prime. This train of thought took my ADD riddled mind on a journey of epic proportions and no passport was needed. Rich women who have always been rich try to empower the poor that have always been poor. Lower class people do not want to hear how you’ve managed to keep and grow your money when they can’t find any to begin with. Overweight women do not want to have a slew of skinny bitches showing them how to tone up and KEEP in shape when our shape changes every time we move.

The third and probably not even final contributing factor was a picture that was taken of me at a friend’s bridal shower. I’m standing behind a counter, a plate of fruit in one hand, a fork in the other and because I was slouching and my shirt was not suited for my body and because my bra fat was poking out I noticed several discernible but small rolls, some of them were possibly wrinkles in my shirt, but do we really think about that when all we see is “Oh my God, why did you post that to my Facebook, you nasty freaking hag?” The picture isn’t even bad. I won’t say that it’s terribly flattering but I have definitely seen worse. It actually made me laugh out loud and I decided to post a comment that said, “Of course I have a fork in my hand.” Well, of course I did.

I’m not an anxious eater, I’m rarely an over eater, and there are many, many days where I barely eat at all. I used to have a problem with eating when I was bored because I had nothing better to do. That lovely little problem is starting to crop back up. I mean Jesus; I’ve been unemployed for over a year, I have to have hobbies. I quit drinking soda a few months ago because I wanted to keep the teeth I have for as long as I possibly can and switched to water with the occasional Coke when dining out or when thirst was about to kill me and water wasn’t cutting it. I miraculously, quickly, and without any effort on my part managed to drop between 10-20 pounds.

There is a common misconception among the thin that all fat people must want to lose weight because, well, they’re fat. This does not hold true. There are many, many overweight people that are perfectly content with their sizes and shapes, many that feel beautiful in spite or even BECAUSE of their size and shape. You can be fat and healthy. You can be fat and happy. I’ve always been fond of the saying “I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and miserable.” Do you know why these quotes exist? Because they are true. I can’t say that I’m ecstatic about my size and shape because I’m not. I FEEL fat, I feel gross, and I feel… bulgy, but damn my ass looks good in that pair of jeans. There is nothing worse than feeling like a misshapen sack of wet flour except looking like one, which I often feel that I do. Yes, I want to lose weight but I don’t want to lose it badly enough to do anything about it at this particular moment in time. I’m not a huge fan of exercise as it requires me to get off of Facebook and… move…

I sometimes find myself jealous over women that are larger than me. Yes, larger. Why? Because these women are gorgeous, they’re usually much better looking than their skinny counterparts, they have this air of supreme confidence, and their bodies are proportioned exactly right for their height. This is where the lumpy sack of wet flour comes in at. When I gain weight it is not evenly distributed. It goes one place and then it goes another, often with mixed results. I have skinny parts on my body and I have some really disgustingly odd shaped parts on my body. I have unsightly bulges that are not at all uniform with the rest of my body. That’s why I call myself fat. I have fat, I possess more than my height and the BMI charts dictate that I should have and I would be completely fine with this if it would just calm the fuck down and even out somewhere. Even my fat cells have ADD.

The mother of one of my friends has a saying; it goes as follows “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” Bitch, have you ever eaten a Big Mac? Cheesecake? Mother fuckin’ deep fried Oreos? I didn’t THINK so because if you had you would know that there are endless stores of things that most definitely taste better than skinny feels. Think about your lover(s) here… I bet that rack of ribs probably tasted a hell of a lot better than ramming his pelvis into your razor sharp hip bones last night. It is a primal urge for men to want to “conquer” their mates, which generally leads to cervical annihilation and a lot of unfortunate pounding. Men fantasize about making that pounding happen with supermodels but they’re also afraid that they might break them. Men secretly want a woman that’s built like a brick shit house because the big bad wolf can’t blow the damn thing down no matter how hard he, uh, huffs and puffs.


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