…is who I am. That may sound harsh, but let me explain: culturally, I am seen as a fat person and I accept that fact and don’t care what word anyone uses to describe my voluptuous being.
I weighed 10.2lbs when I was born, bruising my Mother’s tailbone on the way out. A funny and accurate metaphor for our adorably functional codependent lifestyle. So, I have not known ‘skinny’ ever in my life. As a toddler my wardrobe was the same as any other little girl, only I poured out of mine around the edges, and I knew no different and cared not. Adult me cares, and will never let my mom off the hook for not even trying a cap sleeve for her fat-armed, happy child. But, that is where I think I may have gotten my inner confidence with my body. My mom dressed me like everyone else-I was like everyone else. I did not need much more convincing.
Junior High happens. And, as I am sure anyone knows, that is when girls (whose self-esteem is hacked by hormones) let you know, in some fashion, that you are different as a fat girl. You do not wear similar clothes, when all the other girls have all the same pieces and ‘style’. They could shop where I could not. They effortlessly wore two piece bathing suits and knew nothing of the dreaded trip to the store for anything that had to be tried on in a room with bleak lighting and surrounded by mirrors and a nervous, yet hopeful mom at my side, tugging that suit up in the back because I can’t reach it.
I knew, then, that I was fat. What I did not know is that I should be or act any differently because of it. I am grateful to my parents for giving me that unabashed sense of self, through nature or nurture. I truly have and have always had what is known as body dysmorphia, but in reverse. My full-length mirror says, ‘Girl, you look FIERCE!’ most of the time. In fact, a pimple on my chin will do me in WELL before the sight of my big ass in tights! I love my big ass. I love my big boobs. I love my big hips. I love my body.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I do not love my belly fat. It is annoying, for me, more than ugly. I move. I like to dance. I like to do yoga. A fat belly can deter life, for certain; but, I am never ashamed that I have it. I own it with confidence. I minimize and conceal as needed with clothing and I live my life.
That said, I live my life like I walk around in a size 6. I do not think I wore a 6 even when I was 6 years old, but I feel like a size 6. I feel sexy when I am dressed up and I feel comfortable and at ease when I am wearing PJ pants or leggings. The latter is what I am in most, and I am just as equally comfortable. It’s why I can walk into a bar or a tax seminar and light up the room with my sass. And, when the confidence would wain or be called into question; I faked it. I faked confidence a lot in my early 20s. So much so, that I, indeed, faked it ’til I made it. Every year I age, I get even more confident, too. My friends tell me it is infectious and that makes me very proud and happy, because I am very proud and happy to be fat, but not.