Fat Girl Fashion Rules

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Always wear black. It's slimming and hides all kind of flaws. 
2. No sleeveless tops! Michelle Obama set the bar HIGH for sleeveless, so always have a cute wrap or a fun cardigan with you.  
3. Weigh yourself every day. Base your outfit on how much weight you've gained/lost in the past twelve hours.  

***

"You need to throw out your scale."

"What?"

"Or have your fiance hide it."

"Huh? Wait, why?"

"You also aren't allowed to count calories anymore."

"Are you trying to keep me fat?"

Therapy appointments have been combative recently. 

"Because you fixate on it and do your body more harm than good. I also want you to list five things you like about your body right now."

I cross my arms over my chest like a shitty teenager. And sigh. And roll my eyes. 

"Okay, now it's seven."

"I could pay my mother less to do this."

She eyeballs me. "Do you really want to open that can of worms today?"

"Ugh. Number one . . ."

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Disguise your thighs! Never mind that "Thunder Thighs" sounds like an Asgaardian compliment. Hide those thighs! Unless they don't touch. In which case, keep rocking that Diet Coke Diet, girl!
2. Buy some shapewear! The Kardashian gals do it, why shouldn't you? 
3. Invest in sexy lingerie! Regardless of what they say, your boytoy does not want to see you naked. 

***

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I mean . . . wow."

"We should high five."

"It's usually good, but that was . . ."

"I know, RIGHT?"

It's quiet for a few minutes while we catch our breath. 

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Did your therapist tell you to turn on the light?"

***

Fat Girl Fashion Rules

1. Skinny jeans are for skinny girls. 
2. Channel your fashionable side through getting REALLY GOOD at makeup. BONUS: You can contour away your double chin!
3. Wear things that flatter your body! STYLE INSPIRATION: Fashion forward nuns in the 1950s. 

***

I mean, I get it. I really do. People come in all shapes and sizes. We're brought up in a culture of Photoshop and fast food. Skinniness is not an indication of moral superiority. Forget fashion rules, wear what you want. Love yourself and all your flaws. No, not flaws.  Flaws are being cruel or greedy or arrogant, not being chubby.

I also, you know, live in the world. I listen to my coworkers brag about how far under their calorie count they've managed to say. I remember the long conversation I had with brilliant, funny, beautiful women I knew in graduate school that wasn't about grace or ecclesiology, but was about how badly we all wanted thigh gap.  I've gone into stores that seem to assume that all fat girls want to hide their bodies under yards of fabric, stick to monochromatic clothes, or that we don't deserve anything pretty, fun, or for Christ's sake, that doesn't look like a mumu. 

I do what I can. Every morning I look in the damn mirror and list the seven things I like about myself. I develop both the ability to gently laugh at myself and cry silently in front of the mirror. I leave the light on during sex and don't hyperventilate. I stop getting on the scale, counting calories, and reading Harper's Bazaar. I buy the clothes that I actually want to wear and try to be brave enough to wear them. 

Surprising, Expected

The boyfriend gives me an engagement ring on Christmas Day.

It is both surprising and expected.

We've been referring to one another's families as "future in-laws" for months now. We've talked in detail about our eventual wedding. We have two person dance parties in the kitchen. He's seen me through job transitions and family arguments. We've been angry at one another and made up and moved on.

When we go to tell our friends that we're engaged, one will nearly knock over a waiter after jumping out of his chair to congratulate us. Several will cry. A few make me cry while telling the story.

I feel like I have never been as happy in my life.

***

The cat is meowing and pawing at the door.

I've barricaded myself into the book room. It's mine in a way the rest of the house isn't. It has all of the comforts from my old apartment. The antique wing chair where I curl up and read. The rocking chair my mother bought when she first moved out on her own. It has all of my books and the rug from my house. 

It also has the cat box. 

Normally it isn't a problem, but the boyfriend and I got into an argument the night before and I'm angry enough to retreat to my corner. And I'm angry enough that I've closed the door, turned up the radio, and am pretending that I'm back in my studio apartment in St. Paul, living the life of a single lady again. 

The illusion sticks, at least long enough for me to get control of my breathing and blood pressure. 

Then his voice from the living room "Can you let the cat in? She needs to use the box."

Just that request sends sends my blood pressure shooting back up again. I crack the door open and stomp the three steps back to my rocker. I am fully aware that I am being a petulant, shitty partner, but I'm not even remotely close to being able to act like an adult.

I feel like I have never been as angry in my life.

***

"Will you sing to me?"

It's not long after a panic attack has left me shaking and unable to breathe. I've scratched the skin off of my right hand, one of a new, super-great bonus set of symptoms I've recently started exhibiting. I've spent most of the day sleeping, just trying to get some space in my head.

And despite napping most of the day away, we've gone to bed early (at my request). I'm so done in that the prospect of staying awake past 9:00pm seems impossible.

Anyway, I ask the boyfriend to sing to me frequently. I like his voice and it's a nice way of falling asleep.

I feel him nod. While he's nodding my already burned out brain starts on an exhaustingly familiar awful loop.

I love him. I love him more than I knew as possible. But some day he'll die and then where will I be? I'm always going to be exhausting and anxious and a mess. This is me when things have been going well. Why would I inflict this hot-mess-ness on someone I love? Isn't it better to let him find someone better? 

Of course, all of those tedious, repetitive thoughts (and about two dozen more) take about a second and a half, during which time the boyfriend has cleared his throat to get ready to sing.

It's a Foo Fighter's song we both love. It's one of the songs we dance to in the living room and one that's just somehow right for both of us at the same time.

I start to cry.

I feel like I have never been as certain in my life.