* You know what one of the risk factors for atherosclerosis1 is? Burning proteins and lipids for energy. You know one of [...]]]> * Knitting as a method of self-soothing and to avoid the temptation to slap one’s classmates and/or teacher sort of backfires when one finds oneself contemplating the garotte potential of circular knitting needles. Ahem.

* You know what one of the risk factors for atherosclerosis¹ is? Burning proteins and lipids for energy. You know one of the times that happens? When your body is starving. Such as, I dunno, from severe calorie restriction in the hopes of losing weight? AKA dieting? But teh death fatz is bad for you! So you better start dieting!! …right.

* Listening to people go on and on and on about how much life must SUXORZ if you have diabetes or Crohn’s disease or hypothyroidism makes me go all stabby. Or garottey. At least in my imagination.

* Everything can be blamed on obesity, apparently.

* If you’re unhealthy in any way whatsoever, it’s because you’re making bad food choices. (And, of course, you have ultimate control over what you eat. Even if you don’t actually have a farmer’s market, grocery store, produce stand, or farm anywhere within walking or busing distance of you. Or the money to shop at such. Or the time, skills, energy, or spoons to do anything with said foodstuffs.)

* The United States of America doesn’t have an official national language, but if you want to be a licensed massage therapist in the state of Oregon, you fucking better be literate in English. Right in the Statute regulating the profession of massage in Oregon, it reads: “the examination shall be administered in the English language”. Not just “yeah, we’re gonna give it in English because we’re Anglocentric and don’t care enough about brown people and immigrants to bother offering it any other language”, no, it’s in the fucking law. And yeah, massage therapists need to be able to communicate with their clientèle in some fashion, but y’know what? That means that monolingual I cannot be a good LMT for a large portion of the population. Because I am only fluent in English. But heaven forbid we allow people who are monolingual in any other language (or multilingual in a whole variety of languages none of which happen to be English) to become LMTs! Who knows what they’d gossip about when they know we can’t understand them?? Or something.

* One may be disallowed from practicing massage in the state of Oregon if one “Has a physical or mental condition that makes the licensee unable to conduct safely the practice of massage.” If you can’t safely do massage, you can’t safely do massage, and I don’t have a problem with the Board doing its job and protecting the public from that. But that “has a physical or mental condition” clause scares the shit out of me, given the culture I live in and what stereotypes some people actually believe about things like bipolar disorder (that’d be me!), schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, and so on. Why “has a condition”? Why not “is unable to conduct safely the practice of massage”? My answer? One word, starts with “able” and rhymes with “ism”. Bet you can’t guess it.

* I have knitting skilz. Not just in the refraining-from-murder-with-craft-supplies department, but I can, while simultaneously taking notes, participating in discussion, fighting fatphobia, (and refraining from murder), provisionally cast on 40 stitches in the round (without making a mobius), make a picot edged drawstring casing (which is harder than it sounds), flawlessly pick up the provisional stitches using a second 60″ circular needle, and (three inches of mind-numbingly boring stockinette stitch later) kitchener stitch the bottom closed. Without a pattern. Or reference to stitch guides or tutorials. Because I rock like that.

So what did you learn this week?

But.

And.

So.

How we talk about our [...]]]> I have no desire or intention to police others’ bodies. We can talk about the social pressures that lead to high rates of cosmetic surgery, dieting, body hatred — but to confuse a need for systemic critique with a right to criticize individuals is one of the worst uses of feminism.

But.

And.

So.

How we talk about our bodies — our own bodies — matters. It affects how other people feel about theirs, and that matters. When we say “I’m too fat to wear a bikini”, we’re saying fat is bad, and those as fat or fatter than us also shouldn’t expose themselves. When we say “I can’t get away with going without a bra”, we’re saying to flop is not a subjective choice but an objective assessment. When we say “My hair’s an ugly mess unless I straighten it”, we’re saying everyone’s hair that’s curly like ours is ugly too.

Does that mean we have to pretend to a false enlightenment, never let a negative word slip our mouths? Does that mean we have to suppress our own truths and desires for the sake of others (always, for women, are we supposed live for the sake of others)? I cannot accept that either. We must be able to tell our truths, to take the dark things inside us out so they can be seen, to exert our rightful autonomy over our own bodies, to do as we choose with them.

How do we resolve this? Is it resolvable?

I propose this:

We start with I.

I feel. I fear. I want.

We reject kyriarchical assignments of some bodies, some ways of being, as wholly bad, or inherently good; we know better than to rely on what “everybody knows” about fat, and flop, and tresses. Instead, we get deeper: what are we afraid of? What are we reaching toward?

I feel better in a one-piece. I’m afraid people will stare at me if I don’t wear a bra. I want my hair to be straight.

Can we talk about where our senses of style come from? About male gaze and comfort in public? About the ramifications of hair choices? Absolutely. But we don’t have to. We don’t have to analyze every single choice at every single opportunity; we don’t have to let those analyses dictate our choices for fear of “giving in” to kyriarchy and all its bullshit. We can, we are allowed to, simply say “Fuck it, this is what I want right now.”

How radical is that? How much could we change the world by doing something just because we want to? What would happen if we reject the “need” for excuses, for justifications? Not “I’m too fat to wear that”, not “I ran a mile earlier, so this brownie is ok”. Just — I want to wear this. I want to eat that.  I want. Sometimes, that can be enough.

No, I am not “willing to reconsider” intuitive eating and Health At Every Size. And by your asking me that, I’m going to guess you don’t have much idea of what they are, so let’s start with a review.

Health At Every Size says that there is so much we can do to [...]]]> Dear Health Care Provider,

No, I am not “willing to reconsider” intuitive eating and Health At Every Size. And by your asking me that, I’m going to guess you don’t have much idea of what they are, so let’s start with a review.

Health At Every Size says that there is so much we can do to maximize health, and none of these have to do with a number on a scale. There’s no evidence that the majority of fat people can permanently become not-fat people, and lots of evidence that say that trying to make them be so is bad for their health. (I don’t care if you’re one of the 5% who could and did lose significant weight and keep it off for more than five years; I am one of the 95%, and I’m perfectly happy to be so, thanks.) So let’s work on the parts of health we can affect; let’s move with joy, and nourish with love, and address things like blood pressure and blood sugars and respiration as needed, rather than letting weight — so poorly correlated with health — dictate everything.

Intuitive eating, a related idea, says that when we listen to our bodies, they’re actually quite good at guiding our food choices. Intuitive eating helps us eat when we are hungry, and stop when we are full. It says to “Eat food. Stuff you like. As much as you want.” It acknowledges the first rule of nutrition (“Eat or die.”). It recognizes that there are more important things than optimal nutrition (no, really, there are), and tells us it’s ok to honor those as well.

These are not only healthy ways of thinking and living (so why would you want me to stop them?), I think they are the only ways for me to be healthy, body and soul, when it comes to food and weight. They are non-negotiable for me, and you need to accept that if we are to have a therapeutic relationship.

You say you might not be the provider for me if I’m not willing to let you do your job.

But here’s what you can do:

You can help my intuition be clearer. You can support my own trust in my body and its signals. You can ask about how well I feel I’ve been in tune with my intuition recently. You can query about whether I’ve had access to fresh, yummy foods recently, and you can offer assistance in increasing that access.

You can help me figure out whether there are any foods in particular that are adversely affecting my health; if there are, you can help me keep in touch with my intuition while replacing that food in my diet. You can help me see the abundance of what I am able to eat and enjoy and nourish myself with rather than feel deprived.

You can help me figure out ways to incorporate the movement I long for into my life. You can trust that I will do that as I am able. You can recognize that laziness is not what is keeping me away from the gym or the track — and you can ask about what is, if you are open to hearing the honest answers. You can offer to brainstorm solutions with me, or alternatives, or simply commiserate my factual, hopefully temporary, inability.

You can help monitor my vital stats: keep track of my blood pressure, and my heart rate, and my respiration, and all the gazillions of lab results you are sent when I visit the vampires. You can talk about what those say about my health, and offer suggestions to improve them, within the context of my life (see above).

You can make sure that there aren’t any obstacles in my way (other than, y’know, my life) to eating intuitively and living healthfully: you can optimize my thyroid replacement dose; you can help monitor my mood and stability; you can investigate other illnesses I might have; you can help me manage my anemia. You can help me get to a place where I have the energy and the body-trust to do my own work.

Saying that I will not “diet” and I will not seek to lose weight is not saying that I do not care about my health, and it is not saying I see you only as a med-dispensing unit. It is not saying anything except that I will not diet, and I will not seek to lose weight. You can still do so many things to earn your title as health care provider. The only thing you cannot do is harass me about my size.

I don’t see why my assertion of this boundary would possibly mean you cannot do your job — unless you see yourself exclusively as a diet pusher and weight loss promoter. No? We should be fine then.

Sincerely,

Arwyn

First order of business: shower. But since the Boychick was not in the mood, a diversion needed to be found. A purple, purple diversion:

I swear I didn't encourage the purple -- see the other colors there??

And why did I need a shower [...]]]> There’s a point to this post, I swear. But first, have some cuteness.

First order of business: shower. But since the Boychick was not in the mood, a diversion needed to be found. A purple, purple diversion:

I swear I didn't encourage the purple -- see the other colors there??

And why did I need a shower right then? To go get a pedicure with a dear friend, of course! Guess what color I chose…

Since I posted about the fabulous shirt/dress my mom bought me, certain people¹ have been bothering me for photos of it. And I figure, if I’m going to go to all the trouble of posting one picture…

It's ok, I'm wearing bike shorts underneath

And then the poor Boychick was getting sick, and after his dad went to sleep he got back up and came out to me, asking to be carried because he was scared². And so on he went, in one of our terribly neglected wraps. (Evidence suggests babywearing is like riding a bicycle; I’ll be 90, and not remember anything of the past 50 years, and I’ll still know how to keep a small person happy and secure on my body.)

Told you there were bike shorts

And now, the point:

I have a hard time looking at photos of me, still. Not because I think I’m not beautiful — I know I am — but because I find it very hard to keep feeling that way when I see most pictures of me. There are a dozen pics of me that I’m not about to show you for each of the ones you can see here. I have no problems, with my pale hairy legs and my large arms and my fucking gorgeous fat ass, getting a pedicure or wearing a sleeveless dress, or going running in those shorts — but ask me to look at pictures of myself doing it, and I cringe. I hide. I decline, whenever possible.

But that day I thought, damnit, I’m going to put my skin where my mouth is. I pulled out my camera(phone). And I took a ton of pictures.

And, like most pictures (especially by a non-photographer, taken on an iPhone), most of them sucked. Most of them failed to capture my attractiveness. But I kept taking them. And then I picked the best³, and I shared it on Twitter.

Here’s something I learned from that sharing, and why I feel fully comfortable posting the barely-dressed babywearing one: if your self-esteem is low — making you not want to share pictures of you because all you can see is your “faults” and your “ugliness” and all the things “wrong” with you — show pictures of you to people who care about you.

Now, don’t show them to douchebags, because you’ll only get douchebaggery back. Don’t show them to people who routinely bitch and moan about how they look, or who tear down strangers they see, or who think fashion magazines’ “Hot or Not” features are anything but laughable or horrifying. But if you show them to people who have even a passing familiarity with size acceptance, who know that beauty comes in infinite diversity, who have somehow escaped total brainwashing by kyriarchy — I tell you, you will be floating afterward. I was.

Try this, if you are able. If you haven’t yet, if you — like me — have some positive sense of self-esteem only until the shutter clicks, try it. Take 10 pictures of yourself. Take 100. Take 1000. Pose. Try all different angles, different lights, different expressions. Most of them will suck, and you might start hearing some self-criticism again — but keep going. You know what part of you you maybe-secretly love — that curve of hip, that flash of smile, that puff of hair — so try to capture it, and keep trying until you have the proof, incontrovertible, in front of you, of this truth: you are worthy of being seen.

And then show it off. Show it to your lover. Show it to your parents. Show it to your friends — not the drama-mongers, the real ones. Show it to Twitter. Show it to me, and I promise I will tell you a truth you will not regret hearing.

We are trained to believe that only some ways of being are acceptable. We are trained to expect bodies to be falsely perfect, airbrushed beyond blemish, photoshopped beyond recognition. If we are lucky, we can still see the everyday beauty all around us. If we are very lucky, we can see it in ourselves, but I think it takes practice. Put down the fashion mags, turn off the commercials, train your eye to turn away from the billboards, train your ear to tune out the ads, and look at the people around you. Look in the mirror. Look in the camera, and smile.

Hello, beautiful.

Watch the brilliance of Joy Nash in A Fat Rant and Fat Rant 3: Staircase Wit1. (I found Fat Rant 2 to be too problematic with its portrayals of various compulsive disorders to recommend it, but I adore both of the other two.) I’ll wait.

***

Done? Good. Take a [...]]]> And honey, that ain’t an insult.

Watch the brilliance of Joy Nash in A Fat Rant and Fat Rant 3: Staircase Wit¹. (I found Fat Rant 2 to be too problematic with its portrayals of various compulsive disorders to recommend it, but I adore both of the other two.) I’ll wait.

***

Done? Good. Take a moment to compose yourself from the swoon. (It took me all afternoon. I’m still on a high.)

***

It’s — finally — warm and dry here in Portland. Shorts and tank weather. And I, fat pale flabby stretchmarked unshaven woman, am loving it. I’m sitting here now in a new sleeveless shirt-dress my mom got me, loving the fit and the feel and the color and the girly skirtedness of it, enjoying the breeze on my arms, smiling whenever I catch a glimpse of my shoulder “beauty mark” (aka mole), which has been hiding all the long rainy season.

Sexism doesn’t affect all women the same way. In mainstream US culture, a conventionally pretty woman — of the right age and right race and right coloring and right height and right proportion and right shape and right weight and right features and right symmetry — is told she must bare herself to public gaze (perfectly coiffed, in stylish and “flattering” clothing), that the public (meaning men) might consume her beauty. But the rest of us? Must never be seen. Certainly if we dare to go out in public, we must never wear that which is deemed unsuitable for our status as hideously unattractive, lest we permanently shrivel the phalluses of any men casting their eye our way, or cause the sparky explosion of nearby electronics, or wilt crops, or whatever else it is the sight of pale flabby arms like mine is supposed to do.

These are some damn strong arms, apparently. I think I’m flattered.

The point is, while some women are fighting for the right to not have to do girl-drag, some of us are working hard to have our right to do that very thing accepted.

There’s a lot of privilege in the look-good-while-fat movement, to be sure. (Any time dressing well is seen as an obligation, there’s a problem.) And given the culture which, as Joy Nash points out, barely thinks we should be allowed to wear clothes, looking good as a fat woman usually takes either money or sewing skills and time, all of which reflect various privileges.

I? Would not be sitting here in this lovely shirt (dress, if I don’t bend over or if it’s a good underwear day), with two more lovely new shirts hanging in my closet², if it were not for the indulgence and bank card of my visiting mom.

But I have that privilege, and I get to — sometimes — shop at the fat boutiques, where I’m in the smaller or middle of the size range, where if they don’t have something in my size it’s because it’s sold out, where I don’t have to choose between tents and polyester frocks that will fall apart before I get it home which is what’s offered in my size in the shops I could afford to frequent.

I am fat. My unapologetic existence is subversive. Daring to go out in public, in revealing clothes — unskirted bathing suits and short little sun dresses and cut off shorts? Revolutionary.

Will you join me? Whatever your body size or shape, whether conventionally pretty or subversively beautiful or happily plain, be. Wear what you like. Be as you like. Dress up, dress down. Shave, or trim, or wave in the breeze. No apologies. No put-downs. No backing down.

Revolutionary.

Here’s why I hate it:

It assumes there’s such a thing [...]]]> I hate this question. I really, really hate this question. And as a massage therapy student, I get it fairly regularly, even among my “progressive”/”crunchy” friend set. I also hear from prospective massage students that this is a question they get bombarded with from skeptical people.

Here’s why I hate it:

It assumes there’s such a thing as a “gross” person, or a “gross” body.

I will admit that an unwashed body¹ can be pretty… off-putting. But relatively clean bodies? There’s no such thing as an inherently gross body or gross person.

I mean this in all seriousness: every body I have ever seen on my table is beautiful. I am continually awed by the variety and beauty of the human form that I get to experience every time I give a massage. All the things that society says are gross or disgusting in the body are nothing more than disgusting prejudices — bodies that are “too fat” or “too thin” or “misshapen” or the “wrong color” or “too hairy” or whatever else kyriarchy has dictated is to be hated today — they are not what I see when I look at the bodies on my table. I see people — of all shapes, and sizes, and abilities, and colors, and hairiness — and they all floor me, always, with how similar they are, and simultaneously how different. How beautiful they all are, whether they’re in pain or fit or adequately functional or however else they may be.

I don’t know that all massage therapists feel this way² but it’s the way I feel, and it is both cause and effect of my training and career path. I won’t say I haven’t encountered any prejudice in the classroom, but there have been abundant messages of body acceptance and positivity.

And that is how it should be: massage, at its best, is one place where we can relax completely — both our muscles and the walls we erect to protect ourselves. I hate this question because it violates that sanctity, and promotes the very prejudices I work so hard to keep my space free of.

I just read this fabulous post over at Spilt Milk: Let us eat cake, and in the comments, in my own rambling, I had something of a revelation, immediately followed by a reality check:

I said that the Boychick never “doesn’t like” [...]]]> That, of course, is the first rule of nutrition. And there are no other rules.

I just read this fabulous post over at Spilt Milk: Let us eat cake, and in the comments, in my own rambling, I had something of a revelation, immediately followed by a reality check:

I said that the Boychick never “doesn’t like” what we have for dinner, and then joked that I’d regret saying that later. But then it occurred to me — it is often the case that he doesn’t eat what we have for dinner. Or rather, he’ll eat only part of it (say, only the broccoli, or everything but the broccoli — don’t ask me!), or will eat only a very little bit of it, or, very very infrequently, will decline to eat with us at all (which on the two or three occasions that’s happened has been more about him wanting to run and play right then than a commentary on the meal itself).

And my revelation was that some parents might frame that as “not liking” what we served. Because he’s not eating it. Or because, tonight, unlike the three hundred nights that preceded it, he says he doesn’t like noodles. Or broccoli. Or chicken. Or whatever it is he’s declining to consume on this particular night.

But never, not once, has it crossed my mind to conclude that, thus, he “doesn’t like” what we made. Because I know that toddler tastes change by the day — sometimes by the minute. Because I know that his choice to not eat something right then doesn’t say anything about whether he’ll like it at some other time. Because I know that he ate it yesterday, and even if not, he’ll probably eat it tomorrow¹.

But mostly because we trust him. We trust that he’ll eat what he wants, and how much he wants, when he wants. It’s how we fed him as an infant — as much breastmilk as he wanted whenever he wanted, in which he got tastes of everything I ate — and it’s how we introduced solids² — whole foods, the same foods we were eating — and it’s how he eats now. He eats spicy black beans and chicken makhani and mushroom stroganoff and pretty much whatever we eat. Except for when he doesn’t. Which is ok, because he’ll eat something else later.

The reality check is that there is absolutely privilege in this: we completely have the first rule of nutrition covered. If he doesn’t eat what’s on his plate right now, no one’s going to starve. No one’s going to go hungry because he wasn’t interested in that food right then. There will always be plenty more food later, and different food, and enough food to fill him up, and enough food to waste.

And that is not true for everyone all the time. That is not true for many people within just miles of me. That may not be true for all the people reading this.

Which is something we need to remember — I need to remember — when extolling the virtues and joys of unconstrained living, of intuitive eating, of whatever privileged philosophy³ is being promoted that day. Some of us simply do not have those options. Some of us must make our children eat whatever is in front of them right then because who knows when or what the next meal will be.

Sometimes, it is eat this — or die.