Friday, September 28, 2012

"I Know You Are, But What Am I?"

I always had this preconceived notion that upon reaching the age of about 18 the kids that taunted you on the playground, put gum in your hair or the football player in high school who just couldn't leave you alone as you waddled through the hallways would somehow grow out of it. I believed that these "bullies" or as I refer to these people now, "asshats" (and in worse case scenarios, "assclowns") would wake up one morning, realized they sucked at life and change their ways. They would realize the lack of love they received from Mommy or Daddy or their predisposition to some kind of mental illness would be remedied. Alas, like most things I thought as a child (including but not limited to: Santa Claus, Rainbow Brite, The Tanner Family and Cory and Topanga), my theory is not real.

What brings about this resurgence of the bully-theory, you ask? (Or maybe you didn't ask but I'm answering the question anyway...) In the past month, without any provocation on my end, I have, at the ripe old age of 28 been picked on. And, as is the trend for most of my life, the insult on hand? My weight. Were these children poking fun at me and making comments out of pure innocence of not knowing why God creates different body types? Unfortunately no. In those situations, I simply tell the child the whole story as to how God created me and made me perfect in his eyes and then I passively refuse to let them have dessert. Adults on the other hand... There's not much you can say to them except look on in sheer disbelief and wonder what is so wrong in their life that they would use you as their own personal form of entertainment.

The first incident came while I was sprinting in the parking lot of my apartment complex. A man in the building next to mine (who we shall refer to as Bubba because the sleeveless shirt and can of beer really helps with the image) decided to yell out to me after my set of sprints were finished. Did he ask me if I needed water? No. Did he ask if I needed an inhaler? No. He made me take my headphones out to simply hear him say, "You book it for a big girl." To which my inner Christina Aguilera came out and I shouted back, "And you talk real big to compensate for smaller things, huh?"  What was the point of that comment? What was the point of intentionally calling me out while I huffed and puffed to GET in shape while he chugged a Budweiser (notice the "light" was left off there)? Well Mr. Owl... the world may never know.

The second incident came the other day downtown on Broadway where I was standing outside of the ice cream shop holding both my cone and another's cone while they were in the bathroom inside. Was I double-fisting? No, because I am trying to gain self-control and not eat other people's food. Apparently that's frowned upon in today's society. But a man, who I did not know, had no intention of speaking to or even previously made eye contact with walked up to me, looked me up and down, pointed to the ice cream and said, "Do you really need both of those? Fat ass." I could have thrown my ice cream at him but I wouldn't want to waste a perfectly good sugar concoction. So I just yelled an expletive (sorry Momma) up the sidewalk to him as he walked away reveling in his insult and patting his sorry self on the back.

Folks... when you leave the plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle lunch boxes behind, start driving a car, pay rent, lose the acne, and have your braces removed there's one little thing you need to throw in there as well: Shut the hell up. If a damn bunny can understand the simple saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all"- I'm pretty sure a grown man can comprehend the same thing.  I know that they weren't saying those things "because they liked me" or "they wanted my attention." They truly and without a doubt suck at life. What I don't understand is how in today's society adults still find it necessary to act in such a way. What satisfaction is gained from calling a complete stranger a "fat ass." You know nothing about them. And you certainly don't have the right to come anywhere near my ice cream cone or make me turn my ipod off to hear your remarks.

I believe that men (and women) who insult complete strangers do so because their life is so incredible sad that the only enjoyment they get is through the pain of others. But there is something that I have learned after years and years of bullying: Sticks and stones my break my bones, but I can still pick them up and beat the hell out of you with them. The Lord knows I'm not perfect. But I would never go up to another person and deliberately insult them. Would I have tried to steal the other ice cream cone? Yes, yes I would have. But I would have called myself a "fat ass" and ran away with the cone.

So to all the assclowns out there that have something to say to me about my waistline or the number on a scale I say to you this: If that's what makes you happy then you need to find a new hobby. I'd say move onto someone else and make fun of them but that just continues the cycle. If you're eternally a middle school kid taunting the ugly ducklings, that's your problem not mine. I'm fat and fabulous... and I do book it for a big girl, Bubba. And damn it Broadway Bully... I could eat two ice cream cones if I wanted to without blinking an eye. You should have stuck around to watch. But you didn't have it in you, did ya?

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Mm-Mm... Cotton Balls... I'll Have Seconds Please!

As an avid (and shameless) Sex and the City watcher, I know the importance of New York's Fashion Week. I also know that the clothes are ridiculously ugly, uncomfortable looking, and downright tacky. How a designer thinks a woman wearing an igloo is attractive or even a space helmet with a Molly Ringwald Pretty In Pink prom dress is beyond me. 

Yes, this is absolutely practical for a day at the office or a first date. 
The dawn of Fashion Week is upon anxious fashion lovers and women with too much money. (Personally, I think more attention should be given to "Fleet Week" but my opinion is overlooked most of the time when it comes to things that are "important"). While women across New York scramble to make time to sit in front of a runway and watch the latest styles make their way down the catwalk, the models themselves are using every last hour and minute they have to get ready for the big reveal. Are they highlighting their hair? Nope. Are they trying on new make-up and bronzers? Not this time. Are they eating cotton balls and shooting up cocaine? Why yes, yes they are. Don't we all when it's time to get ready for that "big day" in front of an audience? I know I can't imagine prepping for a first date without eating only cotton balls for a week. And please, the small kind not the extra-jumbo balls. Let's not be gluttonous here kids.

I recently read an article entitled: "Pills, Injections, and Plain Starvation: The Dangerous Extremes Models Go To For Fashion Week Runways." To even be considered a candidate to model in today's industry you must be at least 5'8", 100 pounds (or less) and no larger than a size 0. Well, let me just say as a 5'3", plus size brunette rocking the double digit pant size: more power to ya girls. While I endure the dreaded weight loss battle with such weapons as the dreadmill and Jillian Michaels' threats, models have found the secret to success. According to one model, Kira Dikhtya, "Packs of cigarettes, daily colonics, laxatives, Phentermine diet pills, Adderal, Rx drugs that suppress the appetite, cocaine, speed, thyroid injections, and a strict 500 calorie diet" are the norm. And here I was thinking that SlimFast shakes were a bit extreme. While crack and speed sound like really healthy options to drop the weight, some women have resorted to eating cotton balls to fill their grumbling tummies. I'm just wondering what the caloric value of a cotton ball is and if it contains any carbs. Models also have to pee on a ketosis stick to make sure they aren't consuming any carbs. The only time my fat ass is peeing on a stick is when I think my tummy is grumbling not because it wants more cotton balls (yum-o!) but because there is something growing inside there. 

Reminiscent of the horrifying images from World War II, right? 
Is there a light at the end of this very disturbing, bony and oh-so-gross tunnel the Fashion World seems to have gotten itself trapped in? Surprisingly, maybe. According to the industry, designers such as Miuccia Prada and Herve Leger are two of the designers who have been hiring healthy-looking curvier models. Now, let's not get excited and send me off to New York to fulfill any Chaka Khan runway dreams that I may have had once or twice while walking on the dreadmill. By "plus-size" they mean a size 4. Double digits need not apply to Fashion Week. But perhaps it's a step in the right direction because anything that gets a woman to think she doesn't have to look like the above "human rib cage and sternum display" is a good start in my opinion. 

Back in the 1920s and 30s, women with a little extra meat on their bones were considered more attractive than the stick figures. The more curves the more appeal. I think this had to do with survival of the fittest though. When the Depression hit who would you kill first if you were starving? The fat girl or the skinny girl? Obviously you'd kill the fat girl because she would feed more, right? It was really a publicity propaganda ploy to bulk up the women for a "worst-case scenario" should the US need to resort to cannibalism. (Just a theory, ok?) While this concept of beautiful is not the case in today's society, I can't put a stop to Fashion Week's horrendous clothes or disgusting models. But I will continue to chase that illusive dream of single digit pant sizes and the absence of anything that can be referred to as "extra" or "bat wings." But I'm going to do it wearing cotton... not eating it. That is, unless you cover that thing in some sugary goodness....