“I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’?” ~ JK Rowling
It’s that magical time of year again—time to go to the gynecologist.
For some reason, they never believe me when I say, “It’s all going great down there, no need to poke around.”
After checking in with the grouchy receptionist, and reading a National Geographic from 1998, my name was finally called. I went to the secret hallway with the happy nurse. She took my temperature and then measured me. “Oh honey, you’re almost five feet!” Woo-hoo!
Then, it was the most dreaded time of the visit—time to be weighed. I hopped on the scale, and the nurse proudly announced—157 pounds.
Wait, what? 157 f*cking pounds? Are you sure? I think your scale is broken. It’s not? Well, I didn’t take off my boots, and I’m fully clothed, so that’s got to add about 45 pounds, right?
The rest of the visit was a blur. (I know, I know—you were just dying to read all the gory details of my gyno visit.)
But seriously, I just couldn’t get that number out of my head—I am a five foot, 157 pound human being. I’m officially obese.
I decided I was going to go on the best diet ever—and quickly go back to a socially acceptable 110 pounds.
My perfect diet lasted about 20 minutes. Then, I got home and remembered I had some pumpkin shortbread cookies that go perfectly with my chai tea.
As I sipped my tea and munched on my cookies, some questions went through my mind:
Why does my weight bother me so much?
Why do I feel like my weight is inversely proportionate to my value as a person?
Am I now worth less since my metabolism went out for milk when I turned 27 and never returned?
Do I really even want to go through all the pain and torment of a strict diet and exercise program?
No, I don’t want to go on a diet. I don’t want to wake up at four in the morning and force myself through an aerobics class of pure misery. I do not want a weird “milkshake” for lunch, followed by six stalks of asparagus for dinner.
I want pizza, wine, bananas, chocolate, peanut butter, sushi, donuts and the pure ecstasy that is Nutella!
I don’t have an unhealthy diet. I make sure to eat my fruits and veggies. I go to dance class every week, walk my dog and dance around my kitchen more than any normal grown-up should. I don’t feel sluggish or unhealthy. Honestly, I don’t even think I look all that bad. Sure, I’m not rocking a perfectly flat stomach or a thigh gap, but I have bright eyes and a friendly smile. Yet, for a hot second, I wanted to lose weight just to please people who I don’t give a sh*t about.
The only reason I was even contemplating dieting is because I felt like I wasn’t good enough. Thanks to some majorly effective marketing campaigns, my self-worth tanked because I thought I needed to be a size two to be considered a good person.
As women, we are bombarded with airbrushed images of unnatural beauty. Those gorgeous models are always so happy prancing about in their undies. They live happy and fulfilled lives because they are skinny and bought the right panties. While men have their underwear advertised by middle-aged fruit. Seriously, what the f*ck?
Like every other 90s girl, Barbies were my favorite toy growing up. Barbie could do whatever career she thought sounded fun, as long as she kept those unrealistic measurements. We are taught that while we may be intelligent, funny or hardworking, those traits only matter if you look good.
And of course, if I dare to take a mirror-selfie in my new bathing suit—that actually makes me feel more like a glorious mermaid instead of a beached whale—I’m begging for attention and opening myself up for all the fat-shaming the internet trolls can throw at me.
After all, people think it’s okay to make fun of fat people under the pretense of being “concerned about their health.” Eff that so much! You are not concerned about my health. If they were truly concerned about someone’s well-being, they wouldn’t be public humiliating that person on social media. And honestly, I’d prefer to die early, and full of pizza, than live to be 132-years-old surviving on nothing but Brussel sprouts and sunlight.
Darlings, we can have our cake and eat it too!
We can be chubby, happy, successful and gorgeous—all at the same time. We don’t need to limit our diet to sadness-flavored shakes and ice cubes. We don’t need to go to the workout session entitled “Insane Asylum of Muscles and Misery.”
Society tells us that being overweight is a byproduct of the deadly sin, sloth. But you know what? Sloths are f*cking adorable, and I’d rather be a chill sloth than a busy beaver any day.
So diet—go take a long peaceful walk off a cliff. Then, burn in hell, where they shout at you to push it through 17 more jumping jacks. And for all your hard work, you’ll be rewarded with a crappy shake instead of a real lunch.
I’ll be staring down at you—laughing, while I enjoy some red wine and chocolate cake—because I’m fine just the way I am.
Author: Staci Lerch-Moist
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina