Vixxie comes to terms with being fat

.I am fat. And I am completely okay with that.

It took me just about 35 years to be able to think about it like that, let alone write those words down without immediately wanting to log out of reality for a bit. Okay, I’m still not exactly a mountain of strength that constantly radiates confidence, but I have shed most of the burdens of being perpetually stuck in a fat suit. I live an un-apologetic life.

So let’s start by getting the elephant out of the room. It’s okay to use the word “fat”. It’s not contagious. It’s not a curse. It’s not a diplomatic incident. It’s just a description. We don’t need a rotating cast of euphemisms like: “chubby”, “curvy”, “big-boned”, “fluffy”, “voluptuous” or my favourite: “plus-size”. They’re fine words. Use them if you want. But I’m okay with just saying it plainly: fat. Or big. But please don’t say “thick”. Because then you are assaulting my intellectual capacity, and we’re not going to be okay after that.

Fat. It’s just a neutral descriptive. As a kid, I was constantly receiving the message that I was a disappointment because I was fat. My weight was an issue in every aspect of my life and a social modifier applied to every interaction. It has taken many years and a whole lot of public anxiety to finally come to terms with who I am and to understand that being fat is not a defining characteristic of who I am. It’s not even a interesting part of who I am but admittedly, it’s a very obvious part that people chose to focus on. So for the majority of my life, I’ve been beaten up by booli’s because of it. By quite a few employers too.

I already wrote what it was like being a fat smartass in highschool when I wrote a letter to my sweet sixteen year old self. I also already wrote about the emotional backlash because of that and the invisible scars I have been living with since I was a teenager. But my experience of being a fattie started way, way before being a teenager. It started in elementary school, when I was wishing for a rainy day so that we could spend recess inside and I wouldn’t have to ‘go play with the other kids’ outside, running around pretending to play tag when in fact it was just me being targeted all the time because I was too slow to ever be able to tag any other kid. Which apparently was hilarious. I avoided doing kid’s stuff. Not because I would break the swing being too heavy and too forceful, but because it had weight limits in my head that no one actually said out loud, but somehow I still heard them. Because seesaws were basically physics-based public humiliation machines and I kept catapulting the skinny kids. I avoided birthday parties, because I had a mother informing every mom to make sure I didn’t “overdo it”. Which is a fascinating thing to say to a child who is already learning what shame tastes like before she’s learned fractions. And I thus ended up being that 8 year old laughing stock who received a bowl of raw cauliflower and carrot on the teacher’s birthday when everyone else got to share a bag of chips. See, raw cauliflower isn’t even a snack, it’s a dare. It’s impossible to crunch on unless you purposely intend to break a tooth.

The way to hell is paved with good intentions. And I know that was exactly what they were. Good intentions. When my mother took my hand (or my feet, to forcefully drag me against my will) and led me to the hospital for a complete run of blood tests, thyroid and diabetes check-ups. Being prodded with needles and scary utensils for days on end just so that my fatness could be blamed on anything else than winning the hereditary lottery of bad metabolism. I was six years old and I felt like adults were trying to “solve” me like I was a system error.

Truth is nobody wants a fat child. I can assure you that no parent really wants to deal with those crucial fat-people facts that an overweight child learns at a very young age. Like the fact that being fat-shamed is a constant and that fat people are fair game hunting. There are no ramifications for making fun of fat people. Overweight people are lazy, disgusting creatures with no self-control and all other things that are unfair. There was a time when I starved myself, went to the gym every day and still managed to remain grossly overweight. And I was pretty adamant on pointing that out when I felt wronged, but you can not educate pettiness. I tried. Like that one time when I fell head over heels in love with the music of a cover artist on youtube and then found out he wrote on Twitter: “There is no excuse for being fat. Just go to the gym’.

There is also NOTHING more infuriating than a skinny person trying on the dress (in a smaller size) you so desperately wanted – and looked like a sausage being pushed down its casing – and her then looking in the mirror, stroking her perfectly small touchie but saying out loud “it’s okay to have that bit of extra curve, I have to accept who I am”. Good for you, Beyonce. But also, hello. I’m still standing here right next to you.
What I’m trying to say is that accepting your body is a great thing but doing it so in the assumption something is ‘wrong’ with you because you have slightly curvier hips or a slightly fuller bosom when you are really just a very run-off-the-mills averagely sized person, is extremely hurtful to actual overweight people who get discriminated and insulted every day.

PUBLIC TRANSPORT

When you’re fat, even the most mundane things become a mental hurdle. Public transport for example and having to share your seat with another person is very uncomfortable experience. And not even so much because of the physical discomfort of having your fatness all flabbed up against a stranger, but even more so mentally because you’re either gonna get stared down blank in raw disapproval. Or worse, when a child says out loud what very few adults dare: “I don’t want to sit with the fat lady”. Don’t worry, rugrat, you’re going to be fine. Fat is squishy as fuck.

When it’s not the seat grievers, it’s the looks from the schoolkids. Especially that new wave of 14-16y old who have been obsessing over “beauty” and “being slim” and have been throwing up their lunch since they were 5 years old. They do not just treat you like a leper, they also think you’re deaf and blind. Hello, I can hear you talking nasty about me. Or mothers with 4 baby trolleys blocking the much-too-narrow walkway between the seats. “Elephant on the move”. “Free Willy”. There is a tight ratio between your size and how much hate you’re gonna get going from point A to point B.

THE CHALLENGE OF GOING TO THE GYM

You know the one thing you never see in the gym? A fat person. Have you ever noticed that the only people comfortable enough to go to the gym, are people who don’t seem to need to go to the gym. Toned, styled, groomed people who don’t sweat and don’t have to chug a container of body fat with every move they make. And yet “why don’t you try going to the gym” is always one of the first suggestions one offers when I’m trying to talk about being fat. It’s easier said than done. Going to the gym doesn’t get easier. You just get better at being uncomfortable in public.

Worse than trying to find clothes for a formal event or receiving ‘miracle recipes for weight loss’ from basically everyone you know (even sometimes from people you don’t know) is actually having to throw yourself in a pit full of hunky people working out. Women who strut around like elegant gazelles and muscled men that look like pure-bred horses with a pedigree. And then there is me. Puffing. dry heaving, sweating like a mop and bucket. Dragging myself from one torture device to the next like a hippopothamus on a mission. It’s not that I don’t want to converse with you, it’s just that oxygen becomes a very limited resource when I work out. It’s not graceful.
The gym is a jungle.

I never got insulted in the gym, but the “yeah, you’re gonna have to spend a lot of time here (because you’re SO fat)”-look or the “woah, good on you for trying! +1 for effort! (because you’re SO fat)”-look are just as bad. You sometimes feel sorry for yourself for feeling ignored? Feeling like nobody can see me is THE one thing I wish for most of the time.

BEING OFFERED LASAGNA WHEN YOU MUCH RATHER HAVE SALAD.

Not everyone means harm. They make really uncomfortable statements about my appetite because it’s a strange social hobby. “Do you always eat so much?” when I’m just enjoying a very normal sized plate of very normal healthy food. Or the passive aggressive “Is that all you’re going to eat?” when I’m full after a very normal sized plate of very normal healthy food. Or the ape who states “Oh, you look like you enjoy food” with a wink pointed directly at my chubbiness, why yes, thank you. I like to eat. I also like the breathe, sleep and poop. I’m a human.

t reminds me of something my grandmother used to tell me when I was a child. “You can never eat in public.” Now, my grandmother was a big woman too. It runs in that side of the family. I looked at her with complete disbelief. What do you mean, I can’t eat in public??? At the time, I thought it was one of those weird grandmother sayings. The kind that sits somewhere between “don’t swim after eating” and “put on a jacket or you’ll catch pneumonia through your elbows.” But now? Man. Do I get it now. Here’s just one of many anecdotes for you.
A couple of years ago I was leaving the supermarket during one of those summer days where the air itself feels angry. It was 34 degrees outside. The pavement was melting. My throat felt like a cactus during summer in the Sahara. So naturally, I did what any reasonable human being would do: drink. But the only fluids I had on me were those tiny kiddie-sized cartons of chocolate milk that contain approximately three sips and a vague promise of hydration. I had bought them for my toddler cousin who was staying over for the weekend. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I hadn’t even brought the straw to my lips yet when a complete stranger suddenly walked up to me. She looked at my chocolate milk and said “Ooooh guuuuuurl, you shouldn’t be drinking that! You’re going to regret that when you’re older!” while pointing a finger directly at my overweight body. I almost choked. What in the everloving lactose-intolerant hell possessed you to approach a complete stranger and conduct an unsolicited nutritional intervention over a juice-box-sized chocolate milk? First of all. I was thirty-six years old and fully capable of making (bad) decisions for myself. Who are you calling guuuurl? Secondly. When I’m older? Ma’am, I’m standing here paying taxes. And finally…. I wasn’t snorting cocoa powder off a family-sized cheesecake. I was drinking approximately 100 millilitres of skimmed milk in temperatures usually associated with active volcanoes. The encounter lasted maybe ten seconds. but the confusion has lasted years. And every time I remember this anecdote, I hear my grandmother’s voice. Turns out the old woman was a prophet.

Just as fun when people assign you food. Like you are a themed character: “She looks like she enjoys lasagna.”. Hi, my name is Garfield. I’m a lazy, cynical, and sarcastic orange tabby cat that loves sleeping, watching television, famously hates Mondays, diets, and exercise. Wait a minute, I AM Garfield. What the fuck? Anyway my former CEO occasionally cooked for us (long story, don’t ask). He always brought fish for the vegeterian colleague and salads for the allergic-to-taste colleague. And a lasagna for Garfield because fat people live on carbs and coca cola. I do actually love a delicious, refreshing salad in summer and I eat more vegetables than the average human. I love meat, I love poultry, eggs, quiche, stews, slowcooks, tajines, … Fortunately for my former CEO, I also love lasagna.

Garfield /out.