It has been a while. I think I’d like to come back. And there’s nothing like a run-in with rampant Concavian culture to make a bemused/angry Fatgirl wanna talk it out.
Tonight, I went to a Purim celebration at a nightclub, which should have been hilarious enough in itself. I went in a costume that was also a nerdy science joke. Nobody got it. Only one person even bothered to ask. A lot of women were dressed as sluts. A lot of couples wore couples costumes. A person I met a year ago apologized for dreadfully third-wheeling me at the time, following it up with the reassurance that my recent lack of sexual partners (offered in joking solidarity) has absolutely nothing to do with me.
Fatgirling strikes one and two. It has everything to do with me — I have standards. Not everyone is ready for this jelly.
The last few months have been dedicated to the slow progression from thin(ner) and anxious to round and calm, and it’s been an interesting trip. I weigh more than I ever have, and yet, that number seems like a blessing compared to the feelings of inability that came with having a smaller body. It’s not that I don’t sometimes still feel a little bit off about being bigger than the girl in the cute short dress who can only do that one cute-girl-in-short-dress dance (you know the one, bobbing and slightly swaying the arms); it’s more that reaching emotional rock bottom can really make a person rethink her priorities.
Being thin didn’t make me happy. Being fat now isn’t what’s making me happy. Size determinism: Just as silly as any other determinism, and twice as destructive. Good riddance.
