Why is it that I cannot read a single article about fat-shaming without some “naturally thin” woman jumping in on the comments to decry how it is just as awful to be her. Case in point, scroll down to this (very awesome) commentary on body image in the fashion industry (published in a plus size modeling magazine, no less) and you’ll find the perfunctory skinny bitch’s battle cry:

“How about the other side of the issue? I am naturally thin. I have ALWAYS had a problem GAINING weight.”

I call bullshit.

Here’s the difference…

Miss Naturally Thin isn’t writing this while she’s watching an expose on Paula Deen’s cooking/recent diabetes “revelation” on Access Hollywood knowing damn well that the link between diabetes and obesity is one of correlation, NOT causation.

Miss Naturally Thin wasn’t inundated by no less than a half dozen weight-loss commercials in the past two hours, reinforcing the ideology that her body type is “bad.”

Miss Naturally Thin can claim that her body size is “natural” and even if mine is, no one is buying it. She’s off the hook. Me? I’m lazy.

Miss Naturally Thin isn’t beating herself up, emotionally, for letting herself get thin. It’s “natural,” after all! She is exactly the opposite of millions of “fat” women everywhere that live in a vicious cycle of eating to block emotional pain, feeling shame for eating, eating to block the shame… wash, rinse, repeat.

Miss Naturally Thin doesn’t have to spend a lifetime (or at least 40 years) overcoming a feeling of shame for creating a body that society tells her is “bad.”

These are the differences, Miss Naturally Thin. Stop trying to compare fat-shaming to your body image issues. You are trying to compare apples to oranges – and they are not the same. (Take it from a non-skinny bitch. I know my food.)

The real truth is, Miss Naturally Thin, I wish you felt good about yourself and that no one ever picked on you for being too skinny. But more than that – I wish you would, for once, just leave me the fuck alone when my sisters and I take one small opportunity to come together in empowerment.

You’re like the ignorant redneck that wants to know why there are no “white” colleges. (Answer is every college is a white college in the country, by the way.) Near everything in our world is about you - for you – Miss Naturally Thin. The issue of fat-shaming? It’s not yours. Stop trying to take that from us too.

Caution: all sorts of F-bombs ahead. Lots of talk riddled with “fuck” and fat.

I didn’t plan to make any New Year’s resolutions this year. It was such a non-issue that I didn’t even plan not to plan doing such. I never stick to them anyway.

But we’re a few weeks in to 2012 and I find that there is one recurring thought in my head – so much so that perhaps it is okay to label it as a resolution.

I give up guilt.

I have spent far too much of my life feeling guilty. Feeling like I wasn’t good enough – not the perfect wife, not the perfect daughter, not the perfect friend, not the perfect employee, not the perfect anything.

I give it all up.

I like me. I like my sense of humor. I like my empathy. I like my intellect. I like my spirit. I am even *gasp* starting to like my body. It’s likely no one else’s idea of perfect, but it’s mine and damned be all of society – I’m gonna love it.

Fuck your rules and your ideas of good enough, of perfect, of normal.  Own your own shit, I’ll own mine.

During the last six months of counseling, I’ve focused a lot on body issues. It’s been a huge source of guilt for me. HUGE. I can’t tell you how many, “If only I was skinnier…” thoughts have run thru my head.

If only I was skinnier… I would have been promoted. My father would be proud of me. My boss wouldn’t be so mean to me.  My husband wouldn’t cheat on me. People would respect me more. I wouldn’t be so scared all of the time.

So, yeah… fuck that noise. I give up ALL that guilt.

There are things I want for my body that don’t jive with how it feels right now. I want to be agile and limber, I want to be able to cross my legs and own an entire Tory Burch wardrobe. But I’m not beating myself up because I’m not there yet. Hell, I may never get there – but it’s okay. I’m not going to feel bad about it anymore.

I choose confidence and joy instead.

I’m perfect just as I am.

I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m pretty sure December is trying to kill me.

It started on a rather positive note – with 18 working days left in the calendar year and me with a stock-full bank of too oft-sacrificed PTO days. Fourteen PTO days, to be exact. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to them all – but I scheduled 10 of them with glee.

Glee, and panic.

The week before my first December vacation I put in enough hours to pretty much negate the time off I was preparing to take. In fact, I put in so many hours that I pretty much didn’t sleep… for a week straight… destroying my immune system… during cold flu season. And that was really smart but, luckily, I was too busy to be sick.

That is, until I stopped working.

My first day of vacation I got s-i-c-k. I slept – and slept – and slept. And I slept the second day, third day, fourth day… On the fifth day I had to leave the house. I had a hair appointment that I had been planning for six months, to get extensions.

And I got them. Oh, did I ever get them. Two boxes of the most beautiful virgin human hair you ever laid eyes on. Of course, you’ll never actually lay eyes on them because as beautiful as they were in the box – they looked horrible on my head. I can only describe the resulting hairdo as part chemo patient, part Hasidic Jew, part mullet, and whole lotta parts shedding dog.

To say I am vain about my hair is a vast understatement. So it is a testament to how sick I was that I didn’t go completely cha cha heels on my hairdresser when she told me she was done and wheeled me around in the chair to face the mirror. I was expecting a fabulous mane that would rival that of Ms. Farrah Fawcett herself. Instead, I got this…

Be kind, I was sick...

“We probably could put a few more in there.”

“Uhm…”

“You know, just go home and play with it. Style it. If you think you want to add more, just call me. I have more at home.”

“Uhm…”

“I mean, just call me.”

“Uhm…”

“Any time.”

“Why don’t you just set me for another appointment. Now.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

So, I set an appointment for two days later. I would have been the very next day, but I had a conflicting appointment. And then I went home… and slept.

Fast forward 48 hours later. (Really, not much to tell in that space. Say it with me, “I slept.”) My hair carefully tucked in a cap so St. Jude’s didn’t try to kidnap me and put me on one of their tear-jerker commercials, I jumped in the car to head back to the salon.

And, five minutes later – when I discovered that not only had I sacrificed days and days of vacation all year long only to become sick as a dog when I finally used them AND that I was sick with bad hair too AND that my car battery was dead, dead, dead – I went back in the house and cried.

And then I took action. I called AAA, got myself added to Bryan’s road service account, had a tow truck called, had my battery jumped and was at the dealership within the hour. Two hours later, a new battery and many less dollars in the bank, I went back to bed…

with bad hair.

I headed back to work this week, bad hair and all. I have another appointment scheduled (in a matter of hours, in fact, and I should get some sleep before – but I “sleeped out”). It was a short week, I only had to work through Wednesday. And thank the sweet baby jesus for that – I only had to go to the office with my chemo coif for a few days.

Last night, on my final night for the work week, I worked late (of course). Cain hadn’t been out of the house for almost ten hours, but I knew Bryan would be home in a matter of minutes so I swung by the drugstore on my way home. Coming out of the store I got a txt from Bryan that he was “locked in” at work and would be late.

For those of you that don’t have to deal with the asinine protocol that is a unionized steel mill, “locked in” means that they have turned off his security pass and he can’t clock out or swipe his card to unlock the gate and leave. He’s basically a captive of the steel mill until someone with authority shows up to let him know why his access has been cut off.

Except, he pretty much knew. There had been an accident earlier with his train – some molten steel had been spilled and solidified on the tracks costing the company time and money in a quick clean up. He was sent to medical for a drug test (standard SOP) and sent home while the spill was investigated (also standard SOP). Except they wouldn’t let him out after they sent him home… not standard SOP.

I drove the rest of the way home waiting for more info from him, but hearing nothing.

Upon arrive home I discovered that, for the first time in the many years of living with Cain, that he had left us “surprises” during the day. I’ll give him credit, he picked non-carpeted areas of the house – the basement and [drum roll] behind the back door. You know, so when I opened the door is smeared runny dog poo all across the back landing.

Nice.

So, while my husband was interrogated for two flippin’ hours by plant management about an accident at work, I cleaned up many accidents at home. And, for the record, Bryan spent more time explaining to plant management what happened then it actually took him to spill the metal AND clean it up. Just saying…

Long story short, Bryan is now off work without pay while the spill is further investigated. Again, standard SOP at the asinine steel mill. He’ll be back eventually – but eventually could be days, weeks or months. Management will say it was gross negligence and ask labor relations to fire him. Labor relations will talk to his union rep who will blame management somehow. And, eventually, an agreement will be struck between management and the union that includes the rescinding of outstanding union grievances that have nothing to do with Bryan himself and he’ll be back on the job.

See? Asinine.

So, that’s December thus far. Bad immune system, bad hair, bad battery, bad dog butt and bad loss of income for the foreseeable future.

I tell myself that none of this is a big deal.. the sore throat will go away eventually. My hair will be fabulous once again. The car battery has been replaced. The dog is back to pooping in the back yard. And, hey, at least I get to spend Christmas day with Bryan for once. These are little things – minor annoyances.

But it feels like more than a series of “no big deals.” I feel like the universe is punishing me for my vanity (my hair), my gluttony (seriously, have not been watching the budget at all as of late), my… I don’t know what… Or maybe it is all just a gentle reminder to reset my priorities.

Whatever it may be, December I wag my finger at you. Try to kill me as you may, you have not suceeded.

Yet.

After re-hashing sixty minutes of unpleasant childhood memories with elMom-o at a joint counseling session with Jill that had been preceded by a breakfast full of talking that had been preceded by weeks of talking, I turned to her and said, “But I’m not mad or sad that all those things happen because they made me who I am today. And I like who I am.”

“I think you would have been the person you are today regardless,” she responded.

Strange. All that talking and the real take-away for me came out in ten seemingly-insignificant seconds at the end. Read the rest of this entry »