I remember when this blog
used to be mostly cuteness and sexy adventures. I hope it’ll be those things
again someday, but it’s 2018. Dietland
is a show, I write to congress so much it’s starting to feel like a diary, and
I have new stupid story about clashing with an ignorant white dude about once a
week. So here we are.
About two months ago, I
started working at a nearby university bookstore in the mornings. I mostly
loved it—my commute was only three songs long (meaning, for several belty weeks
in a row, the first three songs of George Michael’s Faith…) and the work was emotionally neutral. Best of all, hooray,
the assistant manager was a cutie-pie pansexual guy with a great talent for
iterating entire (original, not remake) Will
& Grace episodes and an ability to endlessly process the new season of Kimmy Schmidt with me.
Unfortunately, the whole
staff seemed to have a gentle South Park
vibe, a we-pick-on-everybody kind of casual prejudice, but I was new and I
thought I could change the culture with friendship, kindness, patience and
love. Did I mention the three-song commute?! I had Faith indeed and I thought I could avoid blowing up about prejudice
just this once, that the culture of the place would change if I just patiently
explained what was wrong, little by little. It was a self-serving mistake, and
it bit me in the ass. At this point, spoiler alert, I’ve realized I can call HR
just as often as I call congress, though I don’t think they’ve invented any
cute Resistbot-style apps for it.
So I bonded with Cute Pan
Assistant Manager and indulged my sincere love of stacking textbooks—there really
isn’t a better workout in the world. Despite the giggly blush of new friendship
and reminding myself this could never be like the Mister Makeout Music situation,
there were hints that our pop culture bond didn’t transcend CPAM’s general lack
of awareness. A few days into the new position and already DEEPLY in
friend-crush territory, I was sad to overhear him chitchatting with other
members of the team about “the obesity problem”
I haven’t weighed myself
in a while, but last time I checked, I was hovering around 300 pounds. At 5’10,”
that places me squarely in the “extremely obese” category on most charts, and
that’s what it says on my medical records, but this has never rung true to me.
I’m healthy, active, and the problems that arise from being fat come more from the
outside than from the inside.
I’ve spent a good chunk
of this year looking at #fatshion for ideas about how to femme it up, listening
to the She’s All Fat podcast, (https://shesallfatpod.com/) answering all
of the questions in The Body Is Not an
Apology (https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/)
and reading/watching/obsessing about Dietland.
(https://www.amc.com/shows/dietland/full-episodes/season-01/episode-01/episodes-1-2)
I’ve gotten in the habit of
Instagramming myself in cute outfits and tagging @whatfatgirlsactuallywear. So
I have no patience for the way that talking about the “obesity epidemic” lends
a sheen of science to prejudice and serves to legitimize diet culture, that
creepy little cousin of rape culture. I’ve had quite enough of any and all
efforts to make women smaller, literally and figuratively.
I was little-kid hurt
that my seeming new friend would other me that way, especially at work, so I gently
pulled him aside about it. “I just want to be treated like an equal,” I said,
and though he denied having said anything, it felt like he heard me. I ended
the conversation with “It’s not you, it’s the patriarchy,” and we happily went
back to debating whether or not Erasure is a good band. (OBVIOUSLY THEY ARE)
We were happy and giggly
together. Though it seems really weird now, it felt like we were a ridiculous
new kind of soul mates. He was a close talker and sometimes a chat really felt
like a cuddle. At least I know I still turn into a complete fool-o-rama when
someone is cute, it gives me hope for better days.
I taught him what the
word “unicorn” means in poly slang, and he kept me up to date on all of the cutie-pies
breezing in and out of his life. Work days felt charged with compersion for his
exploits and it reconnected me with a need for warmth I hadn’t felt in a while.
It felt sweet and dangerous and I don’t know why this always happens to me at
work—there’s really no excuse.
It SOMEHOW came out (because
he brought it up) that we were both switches and I happily acknowledged
inwardly that I would know exactly how to order him around in a non-coworker
version of the world.
Next Time: Micro(and
MACRO)aggressions are not cute.
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