Sep 15, 2008
I heard a
comedian the other day who really summed up my situation. He said that when you live at home past a
certain age, you really are a loser and your only choice is to hang on until
your parents hit 90: at that point you
automatically become a hero.
How does it
go? I’m not only an unemployed lawyer –
I’m also a stay at home daughter.
OMFG, this is
gruesome.
It puts me in mind of all those Jimmy Cagney movies where the camera pans back
on surly convicts in dirty undershirts rattling their tin cups back and forth
against the bars of their cells.
Yeah. That’d be me.
I’ve GOT to get
out of here. Everybody drives pick up
trucks and has Billy Ray Cyrus Achy Breaky Heart haircuts.
I’m not direly
ill anymore but I’m not healthy either.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror today as I stepped
out of the shower and I was absolutely horrified.
I used to have a
glorious ass: the sight of it now would
bring Sir Mix-a-Lot to the brink of suicide.
It’s tragic. My ex-husband was
an ass man – he isn’t currently talking to me and I don’t know why. I suspect this is at the root of it and I
can’t say I blame him.
Oh I admit
it: I’m vain. I used to have a gorgeous body and this is really tough on
me. But nothing will be gained by
avoiding the grim truth, so let’s get to it.
God may have
afflicted me with every disease under the sun but He sweetened the deal by
giving me a body To Die For. I ain’t lying. Fifteen or
twenty pounds ago, this chassis regularly stopped traffic, caused planets to
align and brought grown men to tears – nothing on the inside worked, but the
outside was smoking hot. All on its
own. It just CAME THAT WAY.
And now? Sweet Lord Almighty.
Let’s start with
the rack.
Odes were
written to it. Trust me. It was
Spectacular. Now, however, it resembles
nothing more than scant handfuls of unthrown pizza dough tossed negligently
over the Value Village washboard of my ribs.
Frightening. I’m thinking of
contacting the men who’d seen it in it’s glory days: I’m sure they’d chip in for a reflecting pool in honour of it –
someplace we could all gather to mourn.
Such a loss. Talk about tears in
heaven.
I used to have
an ass too. It’s gone. Entirely.
Instead, there is a straight line from my spine all the way down to my
toes – and it’s a bumpy line at that.
In fact, I’m kind of bumpy all over.
I look like nothing more than a skeleton with a few sheets of phyllo
pastry flung haphazardly over it.
I’m Rexy
Fabulous, girls – and I hate it. When I
cross my legs, there’s a huge gap.
I had to buy a
new pair of jeans because the pair I bought in Grade 9 were falling off
me. I had a hard time finding ones that
fit – all the ones that did were emblazoned with Tinkerbell.
Even my face
looks different. I’m all eyes and
cheekbones. I’m doing everything in my
power to change it, but I have to say I’m not having much luck. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I thought
I might have buggered up my metabolism.
I can’t eat much because my stomach is the size of a pea, but I’m
guzzling Ensure like a bastard – but even consuming one of those is an
effort. I’m determined to prevail – and
NOT for the sake of vanity (though that would be a bonus).
In all
seriousness…this may have started out satirically, but let’s talk about weight
as a feminist issue. Because I really
think it is. And rarely do skinny
chicks weigh in on it (if you’ll pardon the pun). Or at least you rarely hear from skinny chicks who aren’t all
delighted and smug about being emaciated.
This isn’t
cool. I am this way because I got
sick. This was not a choice.
But according to
popular culture and the images the media bombards us with, I’m just fine. In fact, I’m perfect. I’m well aware of the fact that there are
women reading this column who would kill to be in my
shoes. Ay carumba! We’re women: we’re supposed to carry body fat. It’s a miracle I’m still menstruating.
I’ve never
aspired to be a bone rack. I think
women should look like women. That, to
me, means curves. I’m not advocating
unhealthy. I’m really small boned, so
I’m comfortable at 115-120 – and at 5’5”, my doctor tells me that’s STILL a
good 20 pounds less than the average woman but at that weight, I’m
healthy. I have energy to get through
my day. Everything works. It’s genetic –nothing you can do about it –
on my mom’s side, I get the birdlike bones and the tiny waist. From my dad’s
side, I get the hooters. This is how God made me. But just me.
You probably
have a larger frame. You may be 5’5”
and be perfect at 140. Or 165. Nobody gets to decide but you and your DNA. Don’t let yourself be poisoned by the images
of popular culture. And certainly don’t
be beating yourself up because you think you don’t measure up to some
impossible ideal.
It’s bullshit.
At this weight,
my hair is falling out by the handful. I’m malnourished. My skin is flaky. My eyes are dull. My gums
are bleeding. The ketonic stench of my
breath could knock birds from the sky.
Sexy, eh?
Wake the fuck
up, girls. A little junk in the trunk
is what the Good Lord intended. We
aren’t supposed to look like greyhounds.
When I’m naked, I can see my heart beating under my skin. I’m a walking
anatomy lesson. It is DISGUSTING.
And THIS is the
ideal? WTF?!? I can’t even SIT ON CHAIRS anymore. I need pillows because my ass is too bony and it hurts.
And yet – and
yet – women and young girls have come up to me and complimented me on
my body. For real. “I wish I had your
figure.” OMFG! Why?
Because you have a love of geometry?!
This ISN’T
cool and it’s NOT sexy.
Why are women
buying into this shit? Why are we
(collectively) starving ourselves to look like we belong in a photograph of the
liberation of the Death Camps?
And who decided
this was hot? Not straight men, that’s
for sure. Guys LIKE women with curves. Are you kidding me? The only men giving me the glad eye these
days are necrophiles. A few cadaver
dogs are getting friendly too. A man
would be afraid of snapping me in two just by hugging me (there’s no danger of
that, but go with me on this just for the sake of argument, mkay?) There’s more meat on Ivan.
Fat IS
a feminist issue. Especially for women
who’ve had children. This is what our
bodies were designed to do. We should
GLORY in that – think about this for a minute.
We’re
effectively celebrating starvation.
We haven’t quite
Taken Back the Night (and that breaks my heart) but we might want to turn our
minds to Taking Back Our Own Bodies.
The essence
of womanhood is fecundity.
Remember the
consolation of your mom’s softness when you were a kid? How pillowy she felt? What comfort there was in that?
That’s womanhood. That’s
femininity. Not bones and angles and
sharpness.
Curves.
Breasts.
Hips.
Thighs.
Smoke ‘em if
you’ve got ‘em.
Till next time.
Morrigan
M.
