Flesh and the City: Fat Friends
Words Claudia Isler
Monday, June 20th, 2011 at 12:37 pm
I admit it.
- Claudia with her daughter (Pic | Eric Mazur)
I don’t know what it feels like to be so big that people think “the fat one” when they need to describe me, or stare at me while I enjoy my ice cream, their gaze informing me that I really don’t “need” a treat. Children don’t appear to be sniggering about the size of my behind. Maybe, in fact, those things are happening, and I’m just blissfully unaware of the “damn, she’s big” looks I’m getting. I do know, though, that I am not what comes to mind when I hear the word MILF.
However, I do know what it feels like to feel that fat. I have had friends who are considerably bigger than I – even if I’ve gone up to a size 18, and I have a couple of times, I’ve never had to shop in the plus size or “Women’s” department. Department stores or clothing manufacturers decided at some point that Misses and Women were different people entirely. To me, these designations seems to suggest that if you get married, your dress size is going to go up enough that the number will be followed by a “W”.In some places, Pennsylvania for one, the “Misses” section of the store is pronounced “Missies,” thereby suggesting a lack of rotundity, but also infantilizing anyone buying a blouse under size 14W.
One may not shop at Target for any number of reasons, such as its CEO’s attitude toward gays and lesbians, but at least the store has blended us all together in a way that makes it almost impossible to determine if that comfy dress I just bought was really from a rack of maternity tops. The different sizes flow one into another, and the sale racks are a mish-mosh of sizes, the odd-numbered junior sizes rubbing elbows (and waistbands) with even-numbered clothing for grownups. If it fits and looks good, it comes home, even if it does say “Liz Lange Maternity” on the tag. Who has to know? The lines are blurred between fat and thin, young and old. Shouldn’t that be true in life, and not just on the rack?
Friends bigger than I seem to have a certain ownership of their position, and they tend to guard it. If I am with a friend who wears a 1, 2, or 3X, I am not to say that I feel fat, or that I need to lose weight. Why? Because if anyone in the room needs to lose weight, it’s her? Wait a minute, I thought we were talking about me! But I know if a friend who is thinner than I am complains about her fat, I get irritated. And it’s for the same reason–if she thinks she’s fat, what must she see when she looks at my fat ass? But that’s the mistake we’re all making. Our self-loathing is ours alone and bears no relationship to how we perceive others. I don’t feel better about myself if I see someone worse of.
- Sure. (Pic | Christie)
Women have these terrible conversations all the time, comparing notes to see if, as they know deep within their hearts, they really are the most disgusting hairy pig in the room. Lean Cuisine plays on this in a commercial where women stand in an elevator and talk about the pathetic meals they stuffed into their mouths the night before. “I had a pound of carrot sticks with a 48-ounce tub of hummus.” “Well, I had three frozen eclairs and a piece of toast with Nutella.” You get the idea.
So we’re one-upping each other, fighting over the right to be the fattest, most self-hating lady in the room. Each revelation of our bodies’ secrets, each new story of humiliation and embarrassment, not only bonds us to our women friends, it tries to outdo them. What, at the end of the game, do we win?
Read the Flesh and the City series from the beginning and check back each week for the next installment.
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ABOUT THE WRITER
When not running to or avoiding the gym, Claudia Isler teaches writing and literature courses at Old Dominion University and Virginia Wesleyan College as well as The Muse. She earned her MA at Bucknell University and her MFA at ODU. She has published five nonfiction books for children and young adults and lives in Norfolk with her family.
Other posts by Claudia Isler.
Other posts by Claudia Isler.
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how about this.. don’t buy into the man’s idea of beauty, and don’t buy the man’s prepacked, processed, nutritionally devoid frozen food. and umm, are we really wasting time on the notion that people possibly don’t find you to be MILF material… sounds like all that dieting has cut off some seriously needed oxygen to your brain. put down the diet coke, step away from the maternity rack, and take some time to research ways of incorporating healthy eating and exercise habits into your life. i’m sure that would be less time consuming than writing this article.
Dearest Fatty, (why would you choose the name of a murdering misogynist?),
I appreciate your advice not to buy into any man’s idea of beauty (though I like my husband to see me as beautiful), and your advice to stay away from Lean Cuisines. Good advice for everyone, though I didn’t actually say that I eat those; I mentioned the ads as part of the pattern of women talking about themselves in a derogatory manner. I also don’t know or care who sees or doesn’t see me as a MILF; I spoke only of my own view of myself. The whole point was to say we should stop having such conversations, stop seeing ourselves this way, and move on. I’m not sure why the rest of your response is so angry–perhaps you ought to work out some of those feelings at the gym? I belong (and work out at) a really nice one, where everyone is friendly, and no one is busy judging anybody (at least not out loud). Maybe some time on a treadmill would be time better spent than lashing out at people on the Internet. Hope you keep reading! Thanks for your comments, too.
Claudia
These departments are separated because of the cut of the clothes, not because of the size of the people buying them. “Misses” are for young women, whereas the “Women’s” department is for older women. It’s not a special plus-sized department at all, and is absolutely not meant to suggest you get bigger when you get married (I wear misses, I’m married, and I’ve actually lost weight). They are separated because there is a difference in the way something fits a thirty year old and a twenty year old. Even the skinniest woman by age 25 fills out (does not get fat) in certain places when her metabolism finally slows down.
As a woman I do buy into men’s idea of beauty but I don’t buy into the media’s idea of beauty, because it’s men who are checking me out. Girls putting each other down and shaming themselves for eating unhealthy food is terrible and it’s unfortunate that the media is exploiting many women’s already low self-esteem. However it isn’t men who are doing it, it’s television, movies, fashion, etc. Looking up to the female figure you see on screen is unrealistic anyway considering most of them have personal trainers, nutritionalists, and go to the gym every day. In my experience, men don’t even notice or care about things like stretch marks or an extra roll here or there. It’s more about confidence, how your carry yourself, and and whether or not you’re a strong woman. A healthy home-cooked diet and exercise will certainly make you feel better, and yes, lose weight, but unless you’re morbidly obese it’s not that necessary.
The problem with shopping at places like Target where the clothes get mixed together is that you’re not getting the absolute best fit possible. Even if it feels like it fits it probably doesn’t. I can shop at Target and look like I shopped at Target, or I can shop at Dillard’s and find the absolute best fitting outfit possible and look like I stepped out of Bloomingdales. A smart shopper might buy pants from the women’s department and a shirt from misses; It depends on how honest you are with yourself and how much time you’re willing to invest in finding the right clothes that fit and complement your body. Nobody on “What Not To Wear” or “How To Look Good Naked” loses weight, they learn how to dress better.
I guess I’ll buck the trend here and write under….my own name! Hurrah!
I think the negative reactions to this article are unfortunate and speak volumes to the words touching a nerve (congratulations, Claudia, you did strike a nerve and that’s damn fine, old-fashioned, good writing).
I’ve thought the same thing when shopping in different departments for women…I’ve even mused aloud, “What the hell is ‘misses’?” with my friends. I’ve had three children and a yo=yo body weight because of it. After my first son, I was at an all-time high of 210 lbs. I barely squeezed into a size twelve and that was because I cried at the thought of buying anything bigger. I was in the military, however, so I worked off that weight through intense work-out and eating broiled chicken, brown rice, and steamed vegetables for six months straight.
Along came my daughter and, bless her, I actually weighed less upon leaving the hospital than I did when I found out I was pregnant! That was a neurotic pregnancy, though, filled with steamed, safe fish, vegetables, fulfilling NO cravings, and daily prenatal yoga workouts. I felt wonderful after having her and being so thin, but the stresses of having a toddler, a newborn, and a husband who was now deployed (ten days after she was born he left), there wasn’t time for workouts…I had to work and care for the kids! Some of the weight slowly crept back on, and I remember crying, thinking my husband would be so disappointed when he returned from deployment.
With our third child, I was working full-time and taking online courses. Time at the gym was a mystical fantasy I heard of in passing from thin, single friends and my husband’s single friends. I awoke at five a.m. every morning to get myself and the kids ready, dropped them off at childcare, worked eight hours, picked them up, and went home to laundry, cleaning, and cooking. I cooked what was fast and easy, and frequently I was too tired/stressed to even eat. I collapsed at work at eight months pregnant, and the doc at the ER said I was “malnourished”. I was mortified. I was so confused by the concept of healthy eating, doing so on the go, and incorporating healthy prenatal eating. It was, quite frankly, too much for me.
After John was born, my weight ballooned yet again to 180, quite high for my frame. And it stuck. I tried the same diets that worked with my first son, and they no longer worked. I got a gym membership and became glued to an elliptical and the weight machines, four to five times a day, and the weight remained. Then I cut my diet to a drastic 1000 calories a day in sheer frustration, eating a Special K bar for breakfast/lunch and some steamed meat and veggies for dinner. The weight slowly began to come off, but I was always exhausted, always extremely fatigued. The house was a mess, my schoolwork didn’t always get done, and all I ever wanted to do was nap. And then my hair began falling out. And I just gave up the reins and went to the doctor.
My doctor gave me a harsh reality check. She looked me dead in the face and said, “My dear, if you’re meant to be one hundred and seventy pounds, you’re meant to be one hundred and seventy pounds. If you are eating correctly and getting appropriate exercise, let it be.” I cried. My thin friends weren’t “destined” to wear double-digit sizes. Why was I? My thin friends could laughingly walk around with their two, three kids in strollers while they slurped down a giant frappuccino or Cold Stone Creamery’s behemoth ice cream cone and stay a size six with twice a week yoga….what the hell?
Finally I realized that the opinion of the most important man in my marriage was tainting my body image, one that had been perfectly healthy before the age of 25. A man who, raised in beauty salons by a grandmother who is still getting plastic surgery at the age of 67 and a grandfather who keeps Playboys lying on the coffee table, a man whose idea of beauty in a woman is so distorted that he failed to see my motherly beauty, my wifely beauty, and maintained a disappointment that I wasn’t like a celebrity mom.
My husband and I separated ten months ago, and, to my astonishment, I lost thirty pounds by eating a simple, healthy diet and walking every day with my children. That’s it. Stress weight, much? I was so stressed because I couldn’t meet his unrealistic demands that the stress itself was taking a toll on my body! Once I began demanding health and utility for my body alone, my body responded positively.
Apparently my husband figured out that a non-picture-perfect wife was better than no wife at all. He sought out therapy shortly after we left and engaged in intense therapy for six months (and still does). He does admit that his body image, as well as his expectations for women, was severely warped due to his childhood exposure to the plasticity that is the beauty industry. He has cut his dependence on online pleasures (polite thing to call it, eh?) and has become a man I’ve loved to begin dating again (I’m very pleased to say for our childrens’ sake).
Let me add that he was never outright cruel or verbose with his judgment of my body. He would simply…..ignore it. My body, that is. And for a wife, that’s heart-wrenching. Add to that the fact that he would go online to fulfill those needs…again, hurtful. However, I was also SO very obsessed with my body that I made that the focus of our marriage, not our relationship, his great skills as a dad, and the other kind and thoughtful things he did for me outside of the bedroom. I was intensely focused on my body “failing” me by becoming unattractive to him that it absorbed me.
I’m happy to say I’ve maintained the thirty pound weight loss, he’s lost 25 lbs himself, and we’ve restored the vigor in our marriage. We love to do healthy things as a family….hiking at First Landing, swimming at the beach or the pool, biking, playing at least half an hour outdoors, and finding fun new recipes to try. Sometimes we eat Dominoes delivery. And sometimes we eat hummus veggie wraps. We make cooking dinner a family event so everyone can take part in cooking and see exactly what goes into a good meal. It’s not eutopia…sometimes we still fight, and sometimes I accidentally put on a pair of shorts that are from way back when and they won’t zip up. And I get sad for a moment. And that’s OK….the journey with our bodies is going to be like any other in life….with bumps on the road. The key is to chin up, throw those size sixes in the donation bin, put on the size eights, or tens, whichever shows off the ol’ ass the best, and keep it trucking. And it’s OK.
I love your series, Claudia….keep it coming, and keep being as honest and forthright as you are!!
Thanks so much for sharing your story, Melissa, and it is an inspiring one.