I'm starting a packing list for the Alt Summit. I'm speaking there this week and I need to make sure I pack all the things that will allow me to pass for a stylish woman. Thing is nothing fits. I do this thing lately where I loose 40 pounds and throw away all my clothes and buy new ones and then I gain weight and buy new ones and throw those away when I lose weight. I think this is called a cycle. I'm frankly so tired of it.
I was a pretty chunky kid. Pretty plus. My hair was shiny with sparkly eyes and everyone loved my red mouth but I was big. My grandmother would tell me that I was tall. I just nodded. It never bothered me till I was about 13. I started dieting because it seemed like I was supposed to. My mom was always on a diet. There was a plastic scale that weighed her food by our toaster. She would prep food and talk about it all the time. I thought she was crazy because she was beautiful. She had the best tits in America. All torpedo like and firm. She was bigger but had a waist. I grew up in a curve. Round. Things were always circling.
I hated dieting. It felt like I was bad and had to change things. I would sit in math class and feel super hungry and wonder about genetics. I was an athlete in school but I was never thin. I could do everything the skinny people did but I never was small. So I felt bad and ate shitty small plates of salad and tried be a whole new person. I did like the way people talked in higher pitch around me when I lost weight though. Like the way we talk to babies. You can't help but smile. You can’t stop that train. Pavlov. Salivate. It just happens.
I can do really well for a short amount of time with dieting. I can win for a bit. Contests. Bets. Dares. I am the most hard ass bitch on a diet you have ever known. People at the gym are in awe of me. I glisten. I glow. I can go on like this for 6 months at least and then I relent. I let myself linger with bread. I finger cheeses. I swallow pasta and drink three glasses of wine with dinner. I go on holiday and sun myself beside pools with bars. I basically enjoy the shit out of life again. I smile and laugh. I am so happy and then I'm back to standing in my kitchen and realizing that I hate jeans. They feel tight. My bras are restrictive. I feel full.
But I'm not depressed about it. I'm just pissed. Here's the thing. I can be overweight and sexy. I got this. I'm unconventionally pretty and I can work a room. I'm good and kind and pulsating and in this world. People like me. I know all the things about myself. It really ain't about self-esteem at this point. It's about the fact that I don't know if it's worth me trying to be this other person. We're all a little fucked about our bodies sometimes, but I feel stupid about all the times I announce I’m going to get my shit together when Oprah can't even do it and she says things like: "Inside every overweight woman is a woman she knows she can be."
I read this awesome post the other day about all of this and it made me blog again. I’m thankful to Cassie for making it all come to light for me. Like I was in the dark for a long time about my body and the things that have been sticking around since I was a kid. It made me wanna just dance with myself in the kitchen. The same room I stand and hate jeans in. It made me think that maybe for a little bit this year I could just stop throwing clothes away and move through the world in this body without hating it so much. I could just glide through it for a chance. Maybe the weight will fall off when I don’t think about it. Like how they say love shows up when you stop looking.
I don’t know. I just know that we don’t have a lot of time to worry about all the things that hold us down. We should be fine with now. We should be light on our feet no matter our weight.
I’m just throwing dresses in the suitcase. I’m just winging it this year.