The Perks of Being a Fat Girl

Mama's big boned-ed, y'all.

(Mama is me, in case you didn't know)

I've been overweight since I was about 11.  There are countless complaints I could attempt to innumerate like: listening to skinny bitches complain about how fat they are, listening to skinny bitches talk about their eating habits, listening to skinny bitches comment about how fat other skinny bitches are, and other things about skinny bitches.

However, instead of focusing on the more annoying, sometimes downright maddening, issues related to being a larger lady, I've decided to begin my blog commentary about life as a fat girl by discussing some of the brighter points of this life I've led.

Now, in case you're thinking, Lisa, you skinny bitch, you aren't fat! here's my statement of truth about my size:  I've hovered between the heavy side of normal and the lower side of obese on the BMI chart for my height and fluctuated between the larger sizes in the women's section and the lower sizes in the WOMEN's section since high school.  So, no, I'm not as large as some ladies, but I'm definitely not skinny.

Now, here are the perks I've experienced as a lady of size:

Cushioning
Two weeks ago, I was trying to not let a cat out of a friend's house, missed a concrete step while walking backwards and went crashing down on my derriere.  Now, if I was a twig, I'm convinced I would have snapped in half.  Instead, I landed with a buoyancy that let the rest of my body sort of float to the ground.  I came away with only a sore rear end and not the concussion I surely would have had without my layer of fat.  Cats and children also seem to enjoy the extra layer of love I carry around.  It's good for napping, apparently.

Feeling Secure
Speaking of others who love the layers, don't forget men.  Now, not every man likes a little cushion for the pushin', but the ones who do...really do.  I don't think I'm really large enough to attract men who like the Big Beautiful Women, but, wow, those men really dig some bigger ladies.  They seem to worship them with a fervor that you don't see in men who like your average size 6 woman.

Also, I've never worried that a man was only after me for my looks in the way that my blonde, size 2, model-like friend may have worried.  I generally feel pretty confident that the men who are interested in me may find me attractive, but mostly they like my intelligence, humor or some other aspect of my personality.  And I usually feel pretty confident that they are secure enough in their own manhood to date a woman who does not necessarily fit society's version of beauty.

Being a Ringer
Nobody expects the fat girl to be good at sports.  So when you run a 10K, people give you a ton of support.  And when you play volleyball, the other team doesn't usually expect you to be able to break serves or spike the ball.  I've used this misconception about chunkiness to my advantage since I used to kick ass on the soccer field.  Plus, I could knock the other girls down with a quick jab of my powerful hips if i wanted.

Singing (and Dancing) Along to "Bootylicious" 
There are songs that skinny bitches will never fully understand.  Destiny's Child's "Bootylicious" is my favorite of them all.  In college, my best friend and I changed the lyrics to cause my body's too flab-ilicious for ya babe.

I shake my jelly at every chance
When I whip with my hips, you slip into a trance
I'm hoping you can handle all this jelly that I have[...]
I don't think you're ready for this jelly

Being Friends with Skinny Bitches
There's a lot of competition in the world of women.  I don't think we always know what we're competing for, but we're doin' it.  And doing it with all the passive aggressiveness we can muster, dammit.   But the nice part of being flabby is that a lot of women do not view you as a threat when it comes to men.  Perhaps I'm wrong, but I think I've moved in and out of circles of female friends with much more ease than if I'd been a size 4 and hot.  Everyone trusts the chubby girl!

Eating
Sure, plenty of people judge you when you're chubby and you order dessert at dinner even though everyone else in your party is doing the same.  But at the same time, you got chubby for a reason: you allow yourself to actually eat (and maybe you go overboard sometimes).  I watch some of my thinner friends count calories, workout tirelessly, and pull out their hair to remain thin.  I've been there during times when I've tried to lose weight, and it can become all consuming and, frankly, can take some of the joy out of life.  Not being as stringent with my food means that I can say yes to a request to meet someone for brunch or I can have a few beers.  And, best of all, I'm not that whiny girl who clearly wants to eat a piece of cheesecake but just picks at it or stares at it longingly whilst drinking her ice water with cucumber for flavor.


The Boobs
This is probably my favorite part of being a chubby girl.  When I lose weight, my boobs feel droopy and sad like all their friends the fat cells moved away and they can't seem to perk up from the loss.  But when I'm a little chunkier, my breasts feel like two torpedoes ready to fire jiggly hotness in any second at the next man who glances at my decolletage.


And, finally...

You get to say big boned-ed.

Hey fellow chunky gals, what are some of the perks I left out?

The Internet Dating Chronicles: Fish Lips

So I lied in my post about eHarmony when I said that I only went out with one teacher.  I forgot all about the guy that started it all.

Fish Lips and I met on OkCupid back in 2009.  At the time, I was probably the heaviest I've ever been, but I was experiencing a surge of interest in fashion and jewelry that boosted my confidence enough to finally giving internet dating a go.

I was also completely immersed in my job as an English teacher and thought that my ideal mate would share my choice of profession.  I imagined us sitting to grade together on weekends, bitching about "our kids" at dinner and chaperoning prom together.  So when Fish Lips showed up as a high match according to OkCupid's cocamamy algorithms, and he was a math teacher, and he was a heavier-set gentleman, I thought--perfect!  At the very least, we'd have something to talk about; we're both fat teachers!

Friends who talked like old pros about the unwritten rules of internet dating instructed me to try to ensure that the first date is as low key as possible.  You wanted the first meeting to go one of two ways:

1. You realize quickly that you don't like each other and end the evening politely after one drink, be it coffee, tea, beer, wine or even a glass of water before a meal comes out, or
2. You realize you like each other and take the options of extending the evening somehow--add an appetizer, a meal, a dessert, or have the ability to easily, and safely, walk someplace else to keep the night from ending.

I took their words as gospel truth and chose The Gingerman as the location of the date.  It was dark.  I knew it well.  And we decided to meet on a Sunday evening, so it was the least datey date possible, except if we'd gone to Sunday brunch or a funeral or something.

Since this was the first date I'd ever been on with a stranger, I agonized over what to wear.  I didn't want to overdo it, but I didn't want to look like I didn't care.  After trying on who knows how many outfits, I settled on a black dress, black tights, and what I referred to as my kissy boots.  Looking back, this is the kind of outfit one wears to impress girlfriends, not the kind to wow a new potential mate with legs and boobs and booty.  I'm pretty sure I looked like a nun wearing hiking boots--an Alpine nun.  

I could have at least chosen some sexier boots...
Photo Source: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_luvkfmRVPe1qdz26to1_500.jpg

One of the quirks of my personality, which I like to think my friends and family have come to view as endearing, is my punctuality incessant early arrival to any event.  This especially becomes the case when I'm doing something out of my comfort zone--going to a new place where I have to find parking, going to a place I've been to several times but at a different time or day of the week, and meeting new people.  Getting there early, wherever "there" is, calms me.  It gives me time to stop sweating before people arrive because, let's face it, I'll be sweating.  It allows me to be the one to choose where we'll sit, a place where I won't be distracted by TVs or a lot of traffic flow.  And it allows me to do some nerdy self-talk and preparation on a date.  The night with Fish Lips was when that habit started.  The inner dialogue goes something like this:

Stop sweating.  Stop sweating.  Are there napkins around so I can dab the sweat?  Do I need to go to the bathroom?  Better go to the bathroom before he shows.  I can check to see if the sweat is noticeable, too.  Ok, you just look dewy...for now.  Better sit still for a while.  Breathe.  Deep breaths.  Ok, so what can we talk about?  We're both teachers.  There's that.  I just saw insert movie title here.  We can talk about what we've done over the winter break.  That should fill a half hour, right?  Maybe I'll get a beer before he shows... Is that him?  No.  Is that him?  No.  Maybe he's not going to show and I can just go home.  Oh, look, that's him.  Here we go.

By the time Fish Lips showed up, I think I'd actually ordered a beer already and was about a quarter of the way down the pint glass.  I'm sure I appeared cool and collected, but inside my stomach was doing flip flops.

But the flip flops weren't the good kind that also make you tingly all over just a little.  There was no first-meeting-sweatiness with Fish Lips.  Nope, I was not attracted to him.  

Here's the deal, though.  There have been men in my life who I was not attracted to at all when I first met them and then became incredibly attracted to as I got to know them as people.  And I'm a teacher, I'm bred to give people the benefit of the doubt and a bazillion chances before I really give up on them.  

So I spent my half hour with Fish Lips, like my seasoned internet dating friends suggested, and we had some somewhat interesting conversation about teaching.  We discovered we had a mutual acquaintance.  He told me that most people assumed he was a mean guy because his lips were perpetually stuck into kind of a frowny face, and we bonded over that because people always think I'm angry or bitchy when they first see me.  

In my head, this is what his lips were like.
Photo Source: http://files.coveringthemouse.com/images/uts03.jpg

So I agreed to another beer.  And another.  And after about an hour to an hour and a half, the conversation was coming to a slow and painful halt while my intoxication level was slowly making its way past the point of tipsy.  By now, I knew I was not interested in Fish Lips.  We were not a match, we just had a profession in common.  But then he suggested we get food.  My beer addled brain knew my sloshy stomach needed sustenance.  And so I committed the unthinkable act--I went with him to a second location.

By the time we walked out of the bar and onto the street, I could tell that he was thinking this was going pretty well.  I must have pretended to be interested in what he had to say pretty well--must be all the practice pretending to care about what my students talk about.  In any case, based on his proximity to my side as we walked through the December cold, he was definitely interested in holding hands.  I kept mine in my pockets.

He didn't have a place in mind (another sign that he was not the one for me; I like a planner), so we ended up at Jo's.  We're probably three hours into the date at this point (All you internet daters are shaking your heads at me right now, I can feel it.  I should have cut it off by now!).  We split a sandwich and chips, another stupid move on my part.  While we're sitting and eating, he starts making veiled comments about sex, which make me uncomfortable.  Not because of the sex, but because I know now that I have definitely led him to think that I'm, like, super interested.  And I'm not.  

But it'd apparently been so long since any man expressed interest in me that by the time he walked me to my car, four hours after our date had begun, I was exhausted and full of beer and pastrami and when he asked if he could kiss me, I thought, why not?

That is no way to begin a lip lock, friends.  Suddenly, I realized how much larger his head was than mine.  And how huge and u-shaped his lips were.  When his lips met mine, they didn't move.  At all.  But they were open, which for some reason, I took as a cue to French a little.  So we stood there on 2nd Street: me, mashing my thin lips against his stoically frowning mouth.  Thinking of it now, four years later, it still makes me shudder in horror.  It was the worst kiss of my life, both because of the technical awfulness of it (the Russian judge gives it a 2.7) and because I felt so uncomfortable but just couldn't stop for some reason.  It was like I was just hoping he would move those lips at some point, but he never did.  It was like kissing this guy:

Photo Source: http://www.progressivekitch.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/sadfish.jpg

The worst part is that he must have enjoyed it.  He contacted me the next day to see if I wanted to meet up with him again.  Finally, after all that, I did the thing I should have done 30 minutes into our date and politely told him that I thought he was a nice guy but that I didn't think he was the guy for me.

And that is how I started my internet dating experience.  Reflecting on it, I think it went so terribly because I was not being myself.  I was being the woman-who-goes-out-on-dates, trying to play that part.  I was doing what I thought I should do, instead of what my guts were telling me.  And, even though I let the date continue on that long out of my own fear of being mean by saying I wasn't interested, ultimately I was meaner by not telling him early into the date that I didn't think we were a match.  I'd like to say that I learned my lesson the next time, but you'll see that that is far from the truth. It took me three years to give it another go.  I made many of the same mistakes, and more!

Next installment: Hotel San Jose

Why I'm Single, Reason #1: The Sweat

I'm a sweaty gal.  I've come to terms with it.  I don't deny it.

I'm the one you see at the gym wiping down a sweat slick on the weight bench.  I'm the girl who can't wear her hair down if it's above 70 degrees outside because it won't take long before it looks like she just stepped out of the shower.

I inherited these sweat glands from my dad.  I have very clear memories of helping my dad outside in the yard or garage and noting that the back of his shirt was a complete shade darker than the front of his shirt.  Not just in patches, either--the whole back of the shirt.  And he's a bald man with a very large dome of a head, too.  The sweat would bead as it came out of the pores on his scalp and dribble down, collecting at the end of his nose.  As I would stand near him, ready on deck with the next tool he'd need for his project, I would wait in anticipation for the moment when the drip on the end of his nose would drop.

Of course, I describe this only with affection, because I know exactly how he feels.  Maybe I feel even worse that he feels.  Because as grossed out as people might be by a sweaty man, they must pity a sweaty woman.  Women aren't supposed to sweat in great drops that pool at the waistband of their jeans.  Women are supposed to only slightly glisten, to glow, to appear dewy--not to look like a wet rat.

I cite my sweatiness as just one of the many reasons I still find myself single today.  Not only does my body react to even the slightest heat with oceans of salt water, it also takes cues from my emotions as to when to release the tide.

I sweat when I'm nervous.  A lot of people do.  But it's probably not the same full body sweat I experience.  Once, at a conference for English teachers, I was selected by my round table in a creative writing session to share my quick-write with the entire group.  Of about 300 people.  Now, everyone knows that one of the reasons you go to a conference as a single person is to try to meet other single people.  You wear your cutest outfits.  You try to sit next to attractive people and wow them with your amazing insights on whatever bullshit professional topic is being discussed.  And this should have been my shining moment.  Not only would I be on display for all of the men in the room who would surely decide they needed to talk to me after my reading, I was also singled out for my creativity and writing abilities.  All men are amazed by that, right?  Uh huh.

Well, I've spoken in front of groups of 30 people for years.  I'm a teacher.  That's a daily part of my job.  But at that point, I'd never spoken in front of 300 people.  And definitely never with a microphone.  I am pulled up to the front of the hotel ballroom, and the microphone is shoved in my hand.  Immediately, my body starts to quiver.  Then I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.  The panic sets in.  The red, hotness in my face is a sign that the sweat is about to come.  I start to read the words that are in front of me, probably with the microphone too close to my mouth, but all that's going on inside my head is: stop sweating, stop sweating, stop sweating!  But it just keeps on coming.  By that point, my voice was shaking as much as the hand holding the microphone.

Needless to say, zero men approached me to talk about writing when I sheepishly made my way back to my chair.  I like to believe that they would have if the sweat didn't come.

The worst part about the sweat is that it's also my reaction to attraction.  I'm sure there's some scientific reason that has to do with pheromones, but I just don't agree with science (one thing I have in common with Creationists!) when the thing releasing the chemicals that are supposed to attract a mate also completely disgusts him.  As soon as I lock eyes with a new attractive man and get within a normal range of personal space, it all starts--the redness, the heat, the sweat.  Not just a faint bead on my upper lip.  Full on face sweat.

If I'm lucky, I've interacted with a man enough from a safe distance before this happens and it's not the first impression I make.  But that's usually not the case.

As with most shitty situations in life, I've tried to make the best of it.  I've learned to just not even bother leaving my hair down between April and October in Texas.  I've learned that if I have to be outside when it's warm, it's best to wear a dress or skirt and let the breezes flow.  I've learned to pay attention to types of fabric when shopping for clothes so I don't end up like my dad in the yard.

But my favorite lesson is that my body tells me who I'm attracted to before my head realizes it.  It's become my own little detection system.  It's come in handy in places like the workplace where you don't necessarily want to be flirting with coworkers or when you meet a married man so you know not to joke around with him too much because it might get weird.

And it actually helped me realize I was interested in the last guy I dated when we were left alone at a picnic table and I suddenly felt sweat dripping down my neck.  As I tried to subtly wipe it off with a head-scratch-to-wipe move, I thought, oh, I guess I like this guy.

Luckily, it was a breezy night and the sweat dried quickly.